The Shrew War, Book II: The Winter Coast
by Highwing
Summary: The cold war between Badger Lord and Searat King turns hot.
1. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

The crimson badger did not sleep.

Day and night, the hulking armored figure pushed forward with an unvarying and purposeful stride. After leaving the quarry, the badger had followed the course of the River Moss along its eastern banks until the broadstream crossed paths with the north-south road. The warlord forded the chill waters at their shallowest point here, bludgeoning senseless a probing pike that ventured too close, then set out across the winter-bleak Western Plains at the same measured, relentless pace.

Under lifeless skies of gray, the badger approached the line of mountains that separated the Plains from the coastlands. He knew where to find the hidden pass that traversed the backbone of the range and saved many days' travel by allowing a surefooted beast to cross over the mountains rather than having to go around them. The badger picked up the trail right where previous knowledge and prophetic sight told him it would be, and commenced his climb.

No sane beast would dare tackle the treacherous high mountain pass at night, especially on such a dark and moonless night as fell as the badger ascended the scree-littered slopes. No snow lay on the ground here, but that was only because it was too cold to snow where the naked wind howled without cease and scoured the bare rock crags clear of any and all vestiges of life. Here were narrow ledges and perilous crevasses that would doom a beast at the slightest misstep. But the badger pressed on, straight through the night and straight over the pass. Never had he set foot upon this trail before now, but there was no doubt in his mind that he could tread here safely, even in the depths of this brutally cold black night. He closed the eye that showed him the ordinary world of light and shadows in which most creatures dwelt, and concentrated instead on the other eye, which had been opened twenty-two seasons earlier - the eye that allowed him to see events of the past as if they were happening today, events of the future as if they'd already come to pass, and events of the here and now that were happening in far distant places. This was the eye that showed him the world as it really was, not just as it appeared to ordinary vision. It was this perception into the very substance of existence which enabled him to set one footpaw in front of the other with absolute confidence that he would neither slip, stumble nor fall.

Besides, the badger had not foreseen his own death on this night, so he knew it would not come to pass.

Dawn was breaking as the mighty creature descended the western slopes, the broad expanse of the coastlands and endless waters of the choppy winter sea spread out below him in a bleak and nearly colorless panorama. But directly ahead and below lay a sight which lifted his spirits and gladdened his heart as much as any such heart as his could be cheered: the flat-topped mountain stronghold of Salamandastron. His home.

Most of his journey had been made in total solitude, with not another living creature to be seen stirring in the drab winter landscapes of forest, plain and mountain. But now a majestic companion waited to meet him, gliding down out of the sullen sky to alight on the ground where the gravelly mountain scree met with the sandy soil of the upper coastal plain.

Urthblood stopped before the giant golden eagle. Altidor was the supreme commander of the Badger Lord's bird forces and a positively immense avian, larger even than the kite Halpryn who'd been slain in the battle of Salamandastron the summer before.

"What news, Commodore?" the badger inquired.

"All is going according to the schedule you left me, Lord. Trelayne the glassmaker arrived with his assistants some days ago, and his workshop is all set up. Captain Mattoon is providing him with everything he asks for."

"Excellent. What else?"

"My birds and I have been keeping close watch over the sea lanes and the coast," Altidor said. "Tratton's forces are more active than ever before."

"Have they threatened Salamandastron directly?"

"They are not so foolish, Lord. But they land repeatedly all up and down the coast, away from the mountain. Their timber mill to the north has recently been expanded and fortified, and they have established new lumber and mining sites to the south, halfway between here and Southsward. So far this season, five Gawtrybe have been slain in skirmishes with the searats."

"That many?"

"Tratton has archers of his own. And the Gawtrybe are rather headstrong, and not ones to shy away from a fight. When their patrols see rats on our territory, even an entire shipload, they are reluctant to leave them be. But squirrels are not hares, Lord. They cannot fight on these sandy shores as the Long Patrol could. The Gawtrybe are beasts of the forest, and they are at a disadvantage here."

"And Tratton has now seen enough of them to know what a weakness of mine they are," said Urthblood. "He will be emboldened to send more and more of his ships closer and closer to Salamandastron. He will be wholly unprepared for our shift in strategy. Of course, that will all hinge upon one thing. Have you made contact with the seagull king yet?"

Altidor nodded. "King Grullon awaits you at Salamandastron. We are keeping him and his consorts very well fed, as you ordered. As have his gulls been keeping Tratton's searats - Grullon has lost many of his comrades and kin to the pirate hordes, who feast upon seagull constantly."

"Then he should be most receptive to my proposal." Urthblood waved the stump of his right paw, encased in a heavy iron cap that was perfect for rendering pike and other menaces unconscious, or worse. "Go, tell Captains Mattoon, Saybrook and Matowick that I should be there by midday. And kindly inform King Grullon I will meet with him this afternoon, and thank him again for his forbearance."

Altidor dipped his head in a nodded salute, even though he considered Urthblood his equal rather than his lord, superior or commander. Altidor's raptors, like the Gawtrybe, placed themselves at the badger's bidding in a spirit of cooperation, for the betterment of all the lands.

The golden eagle took to the wing once more, flapping up off the ground and toward the truncated peak of Salamandastron.

And the crimson badger once more put his head down and resumed his determined pace toward his seat of power.

00000000000

It was not so much that a special meal had been prepared for Urthblood's arrival as that the badger was able to share in the ongoing feast being lavished upon his seagull guests.

King Grullon and the gull escort who'd accompanied him to Salamandastron had never known such a richness and variety of food and drink. And to have it all provided in a nonstop gastronomical parade by lowly landbeasts, who for a change were utterly subservient to the seabirds and seemed intent upon waiting on the gulls paw and tail ... well, that made the treats and beverages taste all the sweeter. There was a long history of animosity between the gulls of the seacoast and the beasts of Salamandastron, with each vying for supremacy and control over the tidal zones. Grullon would neither have trusted nor accepted Urthblood's invitation if it hadn't been delivered by an eagle, an owl and a falcon. Even then, it had been touch and go; the gulls hated other birds violating their airspace even more than they hated the furred species who challenged their authority on the ground. But one did not argue with an eagle, an owl and a falcon at the same time - or at least no sensible gull did - and the proposition they'd carried with them was undeniably intriguing. And so King Grullon had puffed out his chest feathers, chosen an appropriate entourage, and flown to the big rock on the shore to see whether these winged strangers and their furry allies could possibly be as good as their word.

They were even better, as it turned out.

Urthblood strode into the main dining hall of Salamandastron, and was greeted by a spectacle of disorder such as had rarely been seen within the mountain stronghold, long the traditional home of the officious hares of the Long Patrol and their exacting Badger Lord and Lady masters. Now, no fewer than a score of raucous, squabbling seagulls stood and sat on the benches lining either side of the long central table, stabbing at the various plates of foodstuffs with their beaks and scattering crumbs and scraps unheeding over tabletop, benches and floor. And from the scale of the mess, they'd evidently been at it for days.

In the large badger's chair at the head of the table sat King Grullon himself, revelling in the newfound dominion he'd been granted over creatures who normally would not have given him the time of day.

Saybrook, Urthblood's captain of otters, met the Badger Lord by the doorway with a smart salute over a sour grimace. "Welcome back, M'Lord. Trust yer travels went well?"

"They were largely uneventful, Captain. How are our guests faring?"

Saybrook's expression twisted anew. "They say ev'ry picture tells a thousand words, M'Lord, so take a look fer yerself."

"You sound less than pleased, Captain."

"Ain't exactly been th' handsomest assignment you've ever given me, sir. Those birds behave like savages! Not t'all like Halpryn 'n' Klystra 'n' Altidor 'n' th' rest o' yers. An' th' greediest bunch o' featherbags you'd ever wanna meet, too! They'll gobble up anything y' put in front of 'em, but they're 'specially partial to anything comes from th' sea - fish, shrimp, squid, clams, even th' insides o' them spiny li'l pincushiony things. Me 'n' me crew've had a full-time job just keepin' their plates full! We really coulda used our full squad 'ere, since us otters are the only ones who can fish fer these gulls."

"I appreciate that you are operating under reduced beastpower," Urthblood acknowledged, "but your fellow otters' brawn was needed at the quarry. The moles cannot be expected to do all the heavy lifting and shifting on their own, nor can Andrus and his foxes. And since I do not have a squad of badgers at my disposal ... "

"Aye," Saybrook nodded, "we otters're th' brawniest beasts y' got, I know. But we're also th' only ones at home in th' sea, an' if Tratton comes a'knockin' on our door, my crew should be at full strength."

"That will not be an issue, if things today go as planned."

The otter captain glanced over his shoulder at the ill-refined seagulls. "You mean them? With all due respect, M'Lord, th' way they've been gorging themselves these past couple o' days, I'm thinkin' they might have trouble just gettin' themselves off th' ground."

"We shall see." Urthblood strode the rest of the way into the cavernous dining chamber, coming around to stand alongside his chair where the seagull ruler sat. "Greetings to you, King Grullon. Welcome to Salamandastron."

The gull eyed him indifferently; if Grullon was impressed or intimidated by Urthblood's presence, he didn't show it. "You stripedog ruler here?"

"I am Lord Urthblood, yes."

"You want me outta your chair?" The gull's harsh, squawking tone suggested he might - or might not - honor such a request.

Urthblood waved his pawstump. "Please, do not shift yourself on my account. I am fine standing."

Grullon's gaze fastened on the badger's iron-capped right wrist. "Stripedog missing paw," he observed rather tactlessly.

"I know you and your gulls were watching the battle that cost me this paw last summer. You have seen the scale of the forces I can command, and what they can do. Surely you can see the advantage of making yourselves my allies."

Grullon paused to gobble up an anchovy. "Craagh! King Grullon and all gulls rule sea skies! No need groundcrawlers!"

"But we do need each other," Urthblood insisted. "We have a common enemy. And I am given to understand that your kind has suffered terribly at the claws of this enemy. Perhaps you yourself, Majesty, have lost friends to the searats. Family, even?"

Grullon sputtered and gacked at this mention, sending a fine spray of anchovy residue over the table in front of him. "Searats kill and eat King Grullon's subjects! They kill and eat King Grullon's brother! Wish all searats die, die, kraww!"

"Then hear me well, Your Majesty. Join forces with me, and I will show you how to kill searats. Many, many searats."

Grullon cocked his head toward the badger warrior. "How many?"

"Shiploads."

The seagull king squawked an incredulous laugh. "Other stripedog with many longears helpless against searats, you and many brushtailed redfurs helpless too. Searats come and go as they please, nobeast stop them!"

"We will stop them, Your Majesty. You and I together."

"Why you say this?"

"Because Tratton is about to make a very big mistake."

"And stripedog knows this, how?"

"Because I will leave him no choice. Majesty, give me one hundred of your gulls to start. I will train them in ways of fighting that have never been seen by bird or beast before. Together, we will take back these coastlands from Tratton. By summer, we will bring the searat king to his knees."

"Hundred gulls? Too many of my flock. How King Grullon know you not just eat them, like searats do?"

"I have not eaten you, have I?"

Grullon shook his head, feathers ruffled. "Still not believe anybeast, anybird stop searats. Searats too powerful, too many."

"Tratton wants to rule the seas and the coastlands too. He cannot have both. Perhaps if I could show you a demonstration of my resolve, that will convince you of my worth as your ally?"

"What you gonna do, stripedog?"

"Give me until winter's end, and I will strike a blow against the searats that will shake Tratton's maritime empire to its core."

"Where? When? What?" Grullon demanded impatiently.

"There is nothing that happens along the length and breadth of these shores that escapes the eyes of the seagulls," Urthblood said with a degree of subtle flattery. "When I act, you will know of it. And if we are to become allies, as I hope, it will be merely the first step in a campaign that will rid your domain of searats, avenge your kin, and restore you to your rightful place as the uncontested ruler of these skies."

Grullon mulled this over, then nodded. "You punish searats, kill many, then we allies. Give you hundred gulls, and hundred more."

"Just a hundred to start, that will be enough. It will take time to properly train them all."

"And you give us more food too," the seagull king added. "You want King Grullon as ally, you feed us like this, every day."

"What we have is yours to share, of course," said Urthblood. "That is what allies do. But, a word of advice, Majesty. Your gulls will be of no use to me if they cannot fly, or dodge the searats' arrows. You may wish to cut back on your enjoyment of our delicacies. Otherwise, I fear you may only be fattening yourselves up for Tratton's tables."

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For the second time in as many days, a lone figure approached Salamandastron.

Two of Mattoon's weasels stood guard at the foot of the northern slopes, where the rough trail up to one of the mountain's entrances began. They were probably not the first of Urthblood's lookouts to spot the newcomer - the Gawtrybe squirrel sentries up on the plateau commanded a view of the flat coastlands for a day's march in every direction - but the weasel pair would be the first to make contact with the stranger.

The hare - a most ordinary specimen of harehood, with nothing particularly distinguished or noteworthy about its physique or clothing - slogged through the sand to a weary stop before the guards. "Mornin', chappies! All well at the bally ol' fortstead?"

The weasels regarded him with narrow-eyed scrutiny. "You one o' the Long Patrol?" one challenged, lance raised.

The hare huffed indignantly, paw placed upon his breast. "Do I look like one of those bloodthirsty, murder-minded, player-pounding warmongers? You slander me, sah!"

The other weasel picked up on the slight Northlands accent in the hare's speech. "Hey, Scroks, ain't this that hare actor from Noonvale?"

"Parts east o' Noonvale, actually," the hare corrected. "Don't know how welcome I'd be in that village these days ... "

"What're you doin' down here?" the weasel Scrocca asked, lowering his spear. "Word had it you was back up north ... "

"So I was, for awhile. Wanted t' keep as much bloomin' distance 'tween my precious self an' those bobtailed bullies as I could. But Lord Urthblood summoned me back here, so ... here I am!" The hare's gaze went above and past the two weasels. "And here comes my bally welcomin' committee now!"

A single squirrel was descending the slope from the north entrance, hopping and bounding down the escarpment with all the alacrity of his kind. Within moments the smartly-uniformed, red-furred creature had reached the spot where the three beasts stood.

The weasels stiffened to attention and saluted Captain Matowick, commander of Urthblood's Gawtrybe at Salamandastron. Matowick snapped off a cursory answering salute, then turned to the hare. "Hello, Browder. You made good time."

"Winter'll do that to ya, wot? Encourages a body to jolly well keep his stompers stompin' over hill 'n' dale. Least there wasn't much snow lyin' about th' plains an' coastlands. An' none of those bothersome gulls pesterin' me, either. Last time I was here, they were swoopin' an' divin' down at me like they thought I was a bally bluefin! I was afraid they'd stab out my eyes an' snap off my ears! Only my superior bobbin', duckin' an' weavin' skills kept my flesh 'n' fur intact on that occasion."

"The seagulls shouldn't be a problem for us anymore," Matowick said as he escorted Browder up the trail. "Lord Urthblood has made arrangements to settle that matter."

"Ho, wot? Wot's he doin', eradicatin' those winged vermin, burnin' out their nests an' poachin' their eggs, chasin' 'em away an' banishin' 'em to parts unknown?"

"Nothing so dramatic. And it should give us the upper paw against Tratton. Now that the Long Patrol are gone, the searats are landing all up and down the coast with impunity. We Gawtrybe can hold Salamandastron all right, but we can't cover territory like you hares can."

"Us hares? Please, Captain, be so kind as not to lump me in with those flopeared felons, wot? Meetin' up with 'em was my biggest bally fear comin' down here. They make th' gulls look like buzzin' mosquitoes by comparison. I do believe they'd stick my handsome head on a pike, given half a bally chance."

"You worried yourself needlessly, then. They're all at Redwall, and now that Foxguard is underway, I suspect they'll find quite enough to keep themselves occupied there."

"Eh, Foxguard? Wot's that?"

"Another of Lord Urthblood's projects. But I think it's a safe bet that we won't be seeing them around here anytime soon."

"Yah, well, I wasn't takin' any bally chances. I crossed over to th' coast north of th' wastelands, then hoofed it down here that way. Wanted to keep as much distance 'tween m'self and those lethal bunnies as was harely possible. You've never seen 'em in action yourself. They can pop up outta thin air, an' fashion weapons outta any ol' thing that's lyin' 'round. Wouldn't surprise me if there's a patrol of 'em keepin' tabs on this mountain right now, even as we flap our tongues."

"Browder, you're paranoid. And for an ever-cautious captain of the Gawtrybe to be saying that, that's really saying something."

"They're my bones would've got broke an' my blood would've been spilled. A chap's entitled to a little healthy paranoia when there's a small army after his hide, wot?"

"Well, we might not be hares, but we Gawtrybe can certainly keep all the immediate approaches to Salamandastron patrolled well enough. We know a thing or two about tracking, and we would have discovered any beasts lying low out there keeping us under surveillance. And Lord Urthblood's birds make pretty regular overflights of land and sea. Not much escapes their eagle eyes."

"Hey, speakin' of those feathered fellows, I thought I saw a couple of 'em flappin' their way north when I was up the beach a bit. They were too high for me t' tell for sure, but they didn't look like gulls ... "

Matowick nodded. "Lord Urthblood dispatched them on a special detail up the coast - his eagle and owl captains. He wants them to take a closer look at some of the searat activity there."

"Well, they won't hafta look too jolly hard. Even though I stuck as close to th' shoreline as I could on my way down here, a few times I had to steer my steps well inland to avoid those salty skintails. You're right smack on the dab when you say they're puttin' ashore wherever they jolly well like. Why, there's one compound they have, 'bout halfway 'tween here an' the Northlands, gotta be almost as big as all Noonvale!"

Matowick glanced aside at the thespian hare, momentarily lifting his gaze from the rock-strewn concourse they followed. "Lord Urthblood will want to hear all about that."

Browder shuddered. "Killer Long Patrol to th' left of me, killer searats to th' right ... wot's this world comin' to?"


	2. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Browder had only ever visited Salamandastron once before, and at that time the mountain had been occupied by Lord Urthfist and his hundred hares of the Long Patrol. Now there were nearly three hundred Gawtrybe squirrels stationed here, and scores more otters, weasels, rats, mice and hedgehogs - close to five hundred beasts in all. If the natural fortress had seemed homily lived-in with a mere hundred hares and one badger as residents, it now positively bustled and buzzed with a living energy both day and night. It was almost impossible to stroll down the passages without bumping into somebeast or other, and meals had to be taken in shifts because there were not enough seats in the dining hall to accommodate everybeast at once.

And in all that great profusion of creatures, Browder was the only hare, and the only beast who wasn't a soldier.

His automatic assumption that he'd be given private quarters was quickly dashed; the only beds to be had at Salamandastron these days were in group dormitories and shared bedchambers. The best that Browder's indignant huffing over the matter could get him was a bed in with some of Saybrook's otters. Browder would honestly have preferred to share sleeping arrangements with Abellon and his mice, but none of their custom-made beds were big enough to fit his lanky hare frame. The otters turned out not to be that bad, though; the waterbeasts had an appreciation for his jokes and stories, and it just so happened that the female otter Tulia shared Browder's affinity for the wooden pipe flute, and the two of them would perform lively duets while their companions tapped out uptempo tattoos on small drums and improvised percussion instruments. If only they didn't snore enough to shake the mountain's foundations, it might almost have been pleasant.

On his third day at Salamandastron, Browder was summoned into a meeting with Urthblood down in the stronghold's strategy room, in the bowels of the mountain. The hare player had already been debriefed most thoroughly by the Badger Lord on the morning of his arrival, and he couldn't imagine what else Urthblood would have to speak with him about.

He found Captains Saybrook and Matowick seated with Urthblood around the glass-covered, bas-relief map table. "Oh, um, pardon me, didn't know you chaps were in sessions ... " He started to shuffle backward out the door.

"Have a seat, Browder." Urthblood gestured toward an empty chair.

The hare swallowed self-consciously and settled himself into the indicated seat.

"For the past three days," Urthblood began, "my Captain of all Birds Altidor and my owl captain Saugus have been flying reconnaissance missions over Tratton's main timber mill to the north. Captain Saugus is a particularly skilled draftsbird, and he has used their observations to create a fairly detailed map of the rats' facility." The badger, working with surprising adroitness for a one-pawed beast, unfolded a large drawing and spread it out on the glass tabletop.

Saybrook and Matowick studied the map. "Um, that's a pretty big compound, M'Lord," the squirrel captain said upon realizing the scale of the settlement represented on the charcoal map before him.

"Nearly big as Noonvale, just as I jolly well toldja," Browder said.

Urthblood pointed with his left paw to various features on the drawing. "The entire landward perimeter of the site is ringed by guard towers at regular intervals, and much of the space between them is strung with an effective invention of Tratton's called knifewire - fine but strong steel wire with spearlike bristles woven into it that can seriously injure anybeast who tries to climb it or falls into it. Knowing Tratton, he probably has covered spike-lined pits and other such traps laid out as well. And he has good reason to protect this site so well: for a number of seasons now, this lumber operation has been his primary source of timber for expanding his fleet.

"But this is what concerns me most. You see here, and here, they are clearing trails farther into the forest - naturally, since they have already cut down all the trees that were easily accessible to the coast. This is the farthest inland that they have ever penetrated with a permanent presence. Given time, these rough trails will be turned into proper roads, controlled by Tratton, and the wood-and-mud shacks of the mill will give way to an actual fortress from which Tratton will be able to challenge us in the Northlands."

Urthblood leaned back. "This must not stand. It is time to remind these rats that they cannot act with unfettered freedom on the mainland, and that they are not welcome here. We must send Tratton a clear signal. I am dispatching a force to show him that he cannot have things all his own way."

Matowick grinned menacingly as he stroked his chin. "Yes, a dozen of my Gawtrybe should be able to pick off quite a few of 'em, and put the rest quaking in their boots. They'll not have any spirit for venturing forth from their compound to build roads or cut down trees once they get a taste of our guerilla tactics."

But Urthblood was shaking his head. "Not a dozen, Captain. A hundred. Supported by the full complement of Saybrook's otters. My other otter captain Riveroll will be lending forces to this assault as well, and my new shrew captain Flusk has assembled over a hundred of his brethren for the mission. They will follow the broadstream down to the sea in their logboats, coming out north of the River Moss and rowing south along the coast to join you there. When you attack, it will be from both land and sea at once. I want every structure there burned to the ground, and every rat slain. This mill is to be wiped from the face of the lands."

The two captains gaped at the audacity of their master's plan. They'd fought many battles in the north, but those had mostly been against roving bands and local warlords. And Saybrook had faced the Long Patrol during the battle between Urthblood and his brother Urthfist for the Lordship of Salamandastron. But never before had they taken on an adversary of this magnitude. Tratton was the uncontested ruler of the seas, commanding forces so vast that nobeast knew for sure how many rats served under him or how many ships he had in his fleet. To attack one of his major strongholds so directly ...

"There must be hundreds of rats there," Matowick guessed.

"Probably," Urthblood said. "Do you doubt your ability to prevail against them, Captain?"

"Uh, no, My Lord. Not with the force you just outlined. We should be able to wipe 'em out. But, a hundred Gawtrybe? From here? That's over a third of our strength at Salamandastron."

"Aye," Saybrook nodded, "and my whole crew of otters too?"

"It'll leave this mountain shortpawed," Matowick said.

"Hardly. Nearly two hundred squirrel archers will remain here, along with Captain Mattoon's weasels and rats, Captain Abellon's mice and Captain Tillamook's hedgehogs. And of course I will be here. Salamandastron is in no danger of falling. But we must strike at Tratton now, and strike hard. For too long has he had free run of the coasts north and south of here. It would not matter if I have ten thousand warriors within Salamandastron to hold it secure, if Tratton hold the lands all around us. I will not hide in my citadel while he expands his tyranny in every direction. If I do not march to meet his threat where it lies, I do not deserve the title of Lord of the Mountain."

"Uh, yes. Yes, sir!"

"Aye, M'Lord, aye!"

"Um ... er ... uh, wots all this t' do with me, M'Lord?" Browder asked, raising his paw hesitantly.

Urthblood looked to the hare. "You are the fastest runner available to me. You will accompany the force north, to help coordinate communications between the various captains."

"Um ... me? Goin' inta battle? I'm sorry, sir, but I'm no fighin' beast, no siree, not t'all ... "

"I would not expect that you would have to become involved in the actual fighting," Urthblood rumbled. "Altidore and Klystra will be with you too, but only as scouts and messengers, not warriors. Between the three of you, I'm sure the commanders will be able to coordinate their strikes for maximum effect."

Browder sat back gloomily. From the badger's tone, it was clear that there would be no ducking out of this assignment.

"You do realize, My Lord," said Matowick, "that if this goes as planned, it could lead to all-out war with Tratton?"

"I would be very surprised if it doesn't, Captain."

These words did little to improve Browder's disposition, or to alleviate the growing sour feeling in the pit of his stomach.

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The assault force was to leave the following morning. For the remainder of the afternoon, while Matowick chose the squirrels who would accompany them north and Saybrook readied his otters, Browder wandered in and around the mountain, striving to shake off the butterflies multiplying in his stomach.

Out on the south slopes of Salamandastron, he came across some of the Gawtrybe testing a new weapon of Urthblood's. It was not so much a cart as a very simple carriage or platform mounted on a single axle and pair of wheels, with a long handle that could be used to pull the device from place to place, or to stabilize it when it was ready for use. This frame supported a long wooden spindle, held up parallel to the axle, which was carved to be triangular in cross section so that it had three faces. On each face was a system of grooves, spring wires and catches. It looked both simple and complex at the same time. But its purpose was as straightforward as could be.

A small horde of straw searat dummies stood downslope from the test site. The Gawtrybe operator of the weapon swivelled the spindle upon its carriage until he was satisfied with the aim, then hauled back on a lever-like trigger. Instantly, a dozen iron spears shaped like oversized crossbow bolts were launched from the spindle toward the targets. Every shaft found a mark, with such force that several of the straw dummies were knocked over.

"Um, impressive," Browder commented.

"You've not seen the half of it, friend," the Gawtrybe lieutenant in charge told the hare. "Continue, Sergeant."

The squirrel operating the weapon cranked a handle, and another face of the spindle was rotated topside - with another dozen of the oversized bolts cocked and ready for firing. The gunnerbeast ratcheted the trigger-lever forward to engage the release wire for this new set of bolts, then pulled it back again. Another fusillade of would-be death rained down on the target dummies, and two more toppled.

"Again!" the lieutenant commanded. The sergeant cranked the spindle handle, bringing the third and final array of lethal bolts to bear. Lever cocked forward, clicked back, and another barrage of the steel barbs flew down at the fake rats.

"That's, um ... that's really ... something," Browder observed.

"Wait, there's more. Sergeant, let's see how quickly we can reload. Starting ... now! One, two, three ... "

While the lieutenant counted aloud, the sergeant and another squirrel hurriedly unsnapped the brackets holding the spindle in place, lifted the now-spent rod from its cradle and tossed it aside, then reached down and lifted a new, fully-loaded spindle into place upon the firing frame. Snapping it into place, the sergeant jiggled the release lever until it engaged.

" ... fifteen, sixteen, seventeen - "

And on the count of "seventeen," a new volley of bolts showered down upon the targets, sowing more imaginary death and mayhem.

"Seventeen. Not bad, Sergeant. Now let's see if we can get it down to fifteen. Tratton's rats aren't gonna wait for us, y'know!" The lieutenant turned to Browder. "Lord Urthblood's working on a bigger model that can shoot a full score at once - that's threescore between reloads. If Tratton sends an army of his searats against Salamandastron, a team of just two or three defenders will be able to mow down scores of 'em before they've made it a dozen steps upslope. Working in tandem with traditional bowbeasts and slingers, we could wipe out an army of a thousand searats in a single day!"

"Um, yes, that's ... er, reassuring, chap. Keep up th' good work, wot?" Browder took his leave of the militaristic squirrels, eager to be away from such grim creatures. He would have more such company in the days ahead than he could probably stand.

Wandering the corridors inside the mountain was not much of an improvement. With over a hundred warriors gearing up for a major military assault, and this in addition to the routine comings and goings of the ordinary activity within Salamandastron, just strolling the passages could be hazardous.

And the Gawtrybe were indeed gearing up - there was no other word for it. The squirrel archers were not going to content themselves with just their customary longbows; they were raiding the armories of Salamandastron for extra knives, swords, axes, cudgels, shields, grappling hooks, crossbows, spears, lances and javelins. Some who bustled past Browder in the corridors looked like they'd transformed themselves into walking, one-beast armories, with only their heads, tails and paws visible through the harnesses and belts of military paraphernalia.

Browder finally found himself in a relatively empty tunnel down in the lower levels, where soldiers were not purposefully rushing to and fro. Purposeful rushing was not Browder's style - indeed, the hare was about the most un-militaristic creature there could be - and he was still coming to grips with the idea that Urthblood had assigned him to be part of an attack force. He was not officially a soldier in the Badger Lord's army, had never at any time formally sworn his absolutely loyalty or fealty to Urthblood, and was toying with the notion of going to the badger and trying to wiggle out of this predicament. There was just one problem with this strategy: one did not refuse Lord Urthblood's bidding without very good reason.

And Browder's only excuse was that he was a coward. Which was a perfectly fine reason as far as he was concerned, but he doubted he would be able to articulate it satisfactorily should he find himself standing before Urthblood, seeking to weasel his way out of this.

Come to think of it, most of the weasels at Salamandastron had greater courage and dedication in one paw than Browder had in his entire body. Yes, it really was a sorry state of affairs. But Browder couldn't help being the creature he was, and a brave warrior he most certainly wasn't.

He glanced around at the passage in which he found himself. This was a part of Salamandastron he'd never been in before, and it didn't seem to be dedicated to military activities. But it was far from the kitchens and storerooms, far from the armory, far from the badger's forge room, and far from any of the dormitories he knew of. It seemed like a separate section of the fortress, set aside for some special purpose. What that purpose might be Browder couldn't imagine, but he saw a light and signs of subdued activity coming from the chambers ahead of him, so he followed his footpaws to investigate the matter.

He found a marten, a mouse and a fox working over a pair of squat, open kilns which were heating the room to an uncomfortable warmth. As Browder stood in the doorway watching, the mouse withdrew a long glass pipe from one of the kilns; at the end of the narrow wand hung a glowing red glob. The mouse put the cool end of the pipe in his mouth and blew into it. The red blob began to expand into a clear bulbous bubble. The mouse meticulously and slowly spun the globe as it grew, shaping it into a nearly perfect sphere. He didn't stop working the hot glass until the globe was far bigger than his head. Removing the pipe from his mouth and holding the finished product out before him with a look of satisfaction, he winked at the hare.

Browder had heard of the art of glassblowing, but he'd never actually witnessed such a thing before now. It was a rare skill, requiring many seasons of apprenticeship and practice to master, and the beasts who could do it were few.

"Yes, can I help you?"

The question snapped Browder out of his fascination. The marten had stepped toward him; like the mouse and fox, he wore a heavy work smock and an equally heavy pair of gloves that were like insulated mitts.

"Oh, um, no, just passin' through, don'tcha know. Never knew this bally place was down here. Wotcha doin'?"

"Making glass for Lord Urthblood."

"Aha, yes, that makes sense, I suppose. Considerin' that you are glassblowers, wot?" Browder's gaze travelled to an adjoining chamber, where it looked like there were scores of the glass bubbles, most around the size of the one the mouse had just created but some even bigger, nestled upon beds of straw and cloth for safe storage. "Yes, quite. Um, wot's His Lord need all this for?"

"The war effort," the marten replied.

"Oh." Browder came farther into the room, intent on the fox, who was starting on a new globe of his own. Browder stopped well short of the kiln where the fox worked, not wanting to crowd or distract a beast who was handling red-hot melted glass. The craftsbeast blew his globe inside a polyhedral wood frame, so that the final shape of the bubble would be multisided rather than a smooth rounded sphere.

"I say, is this very hard?" Browder asked.

"Not unless you forget and inhale while you've got the blowing pipe in your mouth!" the mouse laughed.

Browder tugged at his jerkin to cool himself, then spotted a ceramic tub of water against one wall and started toward it. "All these ovens keep things pretty hot down here though, wot? See you keep a nice trough full for coolin' down an' wettin' the old whistle when this thirsty work takes its bally toll. Think I could use a splash 'n' a sip right now m'self."

"_STOP!_"

Browder froze in midstep at the imperative tone in the marten's voice. "Hey, chap, no need fer shoutin', wot? Just wanted to slap a bit on my face an' borrow a swallow or three, if y' don't jolly well mind ... "

"Do that, my foolish friend, and you won't have any paws left. Or any face."

"Huh?"

The marten looked to the mouse. "Tolomeo ... those tongs."

The mouse Tolomeo gently set aside his cooling glass globe and grabbed up the pair of heavy iron tongs the marten had indicated with a nod. Stepping around the hare, he slowly lowered the implement into the clear fluid. Immediately there came a hissing, spattering sound, and as quickly as Tolomeo immersed the tongs, the metal fizzed away to nothingness. Within moments all he was left holding were the nubs of the two handles, tiny black burn spots marring his glove where the fizzling liquid had scarred it.

Tolomeo dropped the handle nubs of the tongs into the tub, where they too dissolved before the horrified hare's eyes.

"Wha ... wha ... wot the bloody hell is that stuff?"

"We use it for etching glass," the marten explained. "The only substance known that can do so. And I assure you, it is every bit as damaging to living flesh as it is to metal."

Browder felt like he was about to pass out - and not just from the heat - and took an unsteady step back from the deadly fluid. And he'd been about to splash it into his face!

"There is cool water two doors down the corridor," the marten said, taking Browder by the arm and guiding him out of the hazard-strewn room. "Why don't you go have a drink? You look like you could use it."

Browder nodded mutely, took his leave of the glassmaking trio, and stumbled down the tunnel. But he didn't stop for water. He didn't stop until he was far from the kiln room with its burning kilns, molten glass and standing tubs of flesh-destroying vitriol.

Maybe getting away from Salamandastron wouldn't be such a bad idea after all.

00000000000

The following morning - before the sun even cleared the mountain peaks ranged east of Salamandastron - one hundred Gawtrybe squirrels under Captain Matowick and sixteen otters under Captain Saybrook set out on their mission of destruction. With them was one somewhat reluctant hare. Klystra the falcon and Altidor the eagle circled high above the marchers, scoping out any possible trouble they might encounter.

The small army departed from the east entrance, facing away from the sea, and made straight for the narrow pass over which Urthblood had come several nights before. It would normally be unthinkable for such a large group to attempt this passage, but squirrels had no problem with heights, and otters were extraordinarily agile and athletic for beasts of their size and brawn. And as for Browder, he had been over this pass before, and would be able to help guide the others. As long as they travelled in a slow and steady single file over the treacherous path, there ought to be no problem. And their early departure ensured that they would be able to crest the summit and start down the other side of the range before daylight failed.

The Badger Lord had insisted upon this route, even though it would have been faster to simply go north along the coast. Urthblood did not want Tratton to suspect there might be an imminent attack on one of his key compounds, and an army of over a hundred soldiers marching along the open coastal plains would be clearly visible to any searat vessel that sailed close to the shore - as they did with alarming frequency these days. This way, the mountains would shield the Northlanders from searat eyes for a large part of their march. And when they finally did emerge from behind the shelter of the mountains into the northern reaches of the Western Plains, they would be too far inland to be seen from the sea. They would then follow a northwest course straight to the searat timber mill, coming from a direction where sparse woodlands would help hide them until they were at the enemy's doorstep.

It all went according to plan. The sixscore marchers cleared the mountain pass in time to take their first night's rest in the foothills overlooking the Western Plains; had the evening not been so drab and dreary, they might have been able to see clear across to Redwall. Matowick and Saybrook gave the okay to light campfires for cooking and to keep themselves warm while they slept. No enemy eyes at sea or on the coast would be able to see them here, and the two birds escorting them had detected no creatures who might be spies anywhere near them in the plains or foothills.

In spite of the fires and their blankets, it was a cold winter night's sleep, and they were all up early to resume their journey. After a quick breakfast of day-old buns warmed over the campfire embers, they set off north at a pace that would have been punishing for less-seasoned campaigners. Even Browder, who had once made the run from Redwall to Salamandastron in an incredible three days by using this hidden mountain pass, found himself calling upon the full measure of his long-legged loping ability to scout ahead and to the sides of the surging column. At the pace they struck and then held to, it was clear that they would reach their goal well before winter's end.

Well before.


	3. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Days later, no rat at the lumber yard imagined that a silent red circle of death was closing about them.

Two huge vessels lay moored at the dock extending into the sea from the mill site. One, the _Wavehauler_, was a flat-bottomed, tall-sided sea barge of immense proportions, so gigantic that it could carry enough wood to build two of Tratton's largest pirate dreadnoughts.

One of those dreadnoughts, the _Scorpiontail_, lay in the choppy shallows across the pier from the lumber ship. It was a warship such as this which had established a beachhead here four seasons earlier, spewing out an army of nearly three hundred rat warriors who'd spread out in a wave of destruction, killing or enslaving every creature within half a day's march, burning homes and dens and dreys and holts, and digging in so that no woodlanders would have a hope of recapturing this land. It was common for at least one of Tratton's largest attack vessels to be taking shore leave here at any given time, both to give the crews recreational time on dry land and to bolster the defensive forces stationed here permanently.

While many of the _Scorpiontail_'s crewrats lounged and gambled and drank in the dockside tavern, and others were content to get their land legs back with strolls along the shore or up into the wooded hills overlooking the main mill, the dreadnought's captain Lutar and the wood barge's captain Drecksage shared a cup of grog with Ostrok, the overseer and manager of the compound. The three rat officers sat in the third floor office of Ostrok's command tower, the only building on site constructed of stone rather than wood.

The large windows in all four walls of the top-floor office gave a panoramic view of the yards and sea and hills in all directions. From this vantage, Ostrok could at a glance take in everything that was going on in his little domain. Slaves and workers who knew that their overlord was always watching were productive laborers indeed.

The portly mill manager snorted as he gazed out over the site. "I still says 'is Majesty should've waited to have us expand our territory until there was more of us 'ere. No tellin' what resistance we might run inta as we get deeper inta these woods."

Lutar regarded Ostrok. Like all of Tratton's high captains - and like the Searat King himself - Lutar was a lean and muscular armsmaster, skilled in many weapons and lethal to oppose. He did not feel entirely at home with Ostrok or the equally girthsome Drecksage. The demands of a timber mill manager or a pilot of a glorified cargo barge were not the same as for a warrior who might be required to engage an enemy or crush an armed insurrection time and again. All three rats in Ostrok's office had taken lives, but Lutar was the only career soldier and mass-murderer among them ... and that made the other two soft in Lutar's eyes.

"The _Sharktail_ is on her way," the dreadnought captain assured Ostrok. "She should be here any day now. An' once she is, we'll have five hundred fighting rats t' send out in a wave, as far into the forest as we please. Any resistance these feeble woodlanders might put up will be completely overwhelmed. King Tratton has a great deal invested in this operation, too much to abandon it just 'cos we've cut down all the trees that're within easy reach. There's still a whole forest out there fer the taking, beyond your perimeter fences and guard towers ... and King Tratton means to make it his."

Drecksage rubbed his paws together greedily. "We'll gain 'nuff new wood t' build another ten dreadnoughts!"

"An' another ten on top o' that, no doubt," said Lutar. "An' garrisons, an' supply boats, an' furniture. But Tratton needs metal ores much as he needs boats, an' there might be some prime deposits 'neath all those trees. Once they're cleared, we can see about doin' a little mining 'round here."

Ostrok continued to stare out the windows. "I'll breathe a great big sigh o' relief when the _Sharktail_ gets 'ere, an' we c'n get these woods all properly cleared out."

"They'll be clear, all right," Lutar assured him. "Not that I 'spect we'll find more'n families ripe fer slave pickin'. We're too far north o' Salamandastron fer that bloody badger to worry us, an' Redwall's even further. An' those damnable squirrel archers ain't gonna come down 'n' across from th' Northlands while it's still winter. By th' time word spreads of what we've done here, it'll be too late fer anybeast - even Urthblood 'imself - to do naught about it. That forest will be ours."

"What he said!" Drecksage heartily agreed, slapping Lutar on his well-muscled shoulder. "Whatcha worryin' yer whiskers fer, Osty matey? Y' got th' loggin' trails all clear cut, an' not so much as a mousebabe with a slingshot's said boo ta us! These woodlanders - if'n there's even any left in these 'ere woods - they knows better'n ta stand up ta us! Why, if'n I was you, Lutar matey, I'd be more worried 'bout all of 'em hightailin' it outta there when you start yer sweep, an' deprivin' us of all those extra slaves we coulda had!"

"I'm not worried about anything," Lutar replied stiffly. "We will stick to the timetable His Majesty has given us. The new trails are nearly finished, and the _Sharktail_ will be here soon. Then me 'n' Captain Rindosh will clear out these forestlands and claim 'em in the name of King Tratton. An' then - " Lutar's grip tightened on his cup of grog, " - then mebbe I'll get an assignment where I'll be able t' do some real fightin'!"

00000000000

Crute the Timbermaster didn't believe in taking chances.

Ostrok may have been the top-ranking rat assigned to Tratton's northern timber mill, but it was Crute who made it run. The tall rat was built a little like a tree himself, sturdy and wide, and always dressed in greens and browns. It was said he could tell the inner grain of a tree just by running his paw across its bark, could smell hidden rot with just a sniff, and detect hard knots by placing his ear to the trunk. And when it came to roping, sawing, felling and dragging trees back to the yards, or milling them to yield the most valuable timber, he had an almost instinctive knack for doing it right every time. No other rat in Tratton's vast hordes possessed a comparable talent; Crute was truly unique.

He was also highly distrustful of woodlanders, and overly cautious about sharing the forest with them. Crute always sent out advanced scouts, always stationed hidden archer rats up in the branches of nearby trees, and never, ever ventured forth on his logging excursions with teams of fewer than a score of loggers.

On this fine winter's day, Crute was out with a score and a half of his fellow timber rats, with four others fanned out in the trees as guards and lookouts. Ever since the orders had come to extend the logging trails farther into the forest, Crute had been bolstering the number of rats in his daily expeditions. And even though winter kept the days short, he would not lead his teams past the perimeter fences until the sun was fully in the sky, and always called a halt to the day's labor in plenty of time for them to be safely back within the compound by twilight. These precautions had served him well so far, and he had no reason to suspect they would ever fail him.

The late-winter sunshine bathed the forest floor in coldly brilliant light. The leafy canopy that would in other seasons have made these woods into a realm of dancing shadows and dappled sunspots was now last autumn's memory, the dead dry leaves crinkling and crackling underpaw with each step. The bare branches and empty limbs did little to block the rare winter sun, nor did they provide much cover for the lookout archers up in the trees. The few scattered pines held their needles, but their branches weren't thick enough to support the rat archers, and the dense growth would hinder their aim as much as it would camouflage them. So, the arboreal watchers settled themselves onto the exposed limbs of oak and ash and elm, content to make a show of force and scan the surrounding woods from their lofty vantages.

By midday most of them had shouldered their bows and stretched themselves out on their respective perches to soak up what warmth from the sun they could. None dared fall asleep - there was the immediate danger of a long fall to the ground along with the even less cheery prospect of having to face Crute's wrath afterward - but their vigilance definitely suffered from the lack of action.

Crute had just finished roping up a stately ash so that it could be guided down to fall into the cleared path, where it would be easier to haul back to the compound. He didn't really like logging in the winter, and not just because of the lack of cover. In winter, the trees felt dead, and it was more difficult to gauge which ones would yield the best lumber - not that it really mattered, since Tratton's plans called for this entire area to be clear cut eventually. But Crute found the felling of trees slumbering in the midst of their winter dormancy somewhat disheartening.

The ash was severed at its base, and was halfway to the ground when one of the treetop sentry rats a short distance away beat it to the forest floor. "Hey, look!" one of the ropers called out in a half-laughing voice. "Susca's fallen out of his tree!"

Crute blew out an exasperated sigh. "Reckon somerat oughtta go see if'n he's awright ... and' if he is, then I'm gonna kick 'is scurvy tail 'round th' forest fer fallin' asleep on duty!"

Then another archer rat fell from its tree.

Moments later a comrade who'd reached the first fallen rat cried out, "He's got an arrow through 'im! Suska's been shot!"

"What!" Crute exploded.

A third rat fell from its tree, and a fourth on the ground, standing at the head of the trail, also fell, transfixed.

The last remaining archer rat yelled, "It's squirrels! I see 'em, comin' in from th' east!" He was already climbing down his trunk as the words left his lips. Crute, crouching low to present less of a target, raced over to interrogate the descending archer. He narrowly avoided the ash, which came crashing down as the rats steadying the guide ropes let go to dive for cover.

"Whaddya mean, squirrels?" he demanded of the archer. "How'd they get within arrow range? You was supposed t' be watchin' out fer things like this!"

"They got soot or sumpthin' rubbed inta their fur, sir," the flustered lookout said. "They ain't red like usual. They blend right in with th' trees an' dead leaves!"

Crute ground his teeth. Fiendishly clever of these squirrels, camouflaging themselves like that. Which suggested this wasn't some spur-of-the-moment attack from a passing woodlander or two. "How many'd y' see?"

"Think there's at least three of 'em, sir. Could be more ... "

"Sea salt 'n' damnation!" Crute spat. Even if there were only three or four attackers, squirrels could outshoot any rat. And now that all his rats had been chased down from the trees, those bushtailed devils could come at them from in front or above. A squirrel moving through even leafless treetops would make a much harder target than his stationary archers had been. "Ya sure they're comin' in just from th' east, an' not movin' to surround us?"

"Only saw 'em to th' east, sir." The archer pointed to all their fellow rats, who'd taken shelter behind various trees. Five lay dead, including the three who'd been in the branches. "We seem t' be safe behind these trunks, so they can't be all around us. Not yet, anyways ... "

"So let's not go givin' 'em a chance to do just that!" Crute cupped his paws to his mouth and called to his comrades, "Fall back! Toward th' compound! Scatter through th' trees, an' we'll rendezvous back below th' last rise in th' trail! Every rat fer 'imself!"

Needless to say, Crute led the staggered retreat.

A few stray arrows fell harmlessly among them, but it quickly became obvious that the squirrels were not pressing the pursuit. By the time the withdrawing rats reached the rise Crute had named, all the survivors had congregated on the trail again, although they kept to a half-run in their haste to be out of the forest and safely back behind the knifewire fences and guard towers of their compound. More than one threw anxious, panicky glances over their shoulder.

Crute was fuming. "Killin' me rats ... interruptin' my loggin' ... they'll pay dear, by claw, them bushtails will! I'll get Cap'n Lutar ... t' send out a hunnerd ... of his fightin' rats! Then we'll see ... how those crouchin', camouflaged, lily-livered cowards fare!"

Leading the retreat and puffing heavily - although not as heavily as most of his less physically fit rodent comrades - Crute rounded the final bend in the logging trail that would take them out of this accursed forest and back into the stump-filled, clearcut zone around the mill grounds. The sight before him made the Timbermaster stagger to a standstill.

At first glance Crute thought a large gray tree had fallen directly across their path. It took several moments for him to realize he was looking at a line of the grim-faced, ashen-furred squirrels standing shoulder-to-shoulder, perfectly still in their concentration, their every bowstring notched with an arrow and pulled back taut.

There were more than three or four of them. Many, many more.

"Oh, spit," Crute muttered to himself.

A score of Gawtrybe bowstrings twanged as one.

00000000000

Captain Matowick stood surveying the results of the ambush. Thirty-seven rats and not a survivor among them. Those who had not died instantly from the hails of arrow fire had been dispatched by Gawtrybe daggers as the squirrels moved through the dead and dying to finish their business here.

Matowick had not lost a single fighter in the engagement.

Browder stood as many paces from the carnage as he could without straying beyond earshot of the squirrel commander. The hare scout leaned against a treetrunk, facing away from the scene of the slaughter, sucking in deep breaths of the crisp winter air. Urthblood had assured him that he wouldn't be taking part in any actual battles, but this was already closer to the fighting than Browder cared to be, and the main engagement had yet to begin.

The squirrel sergeant Grapentine reported back to Matowick with a salute. "Looks like we got 'em all, sir. But I think they're gonna be missed pretty soon. No tents, no blankets, and only day provisions. This team planned on being back inside their compound by nightfall. There'll be questions when they don't return on schedule."

Matowick nodded. He'd noticed the rats' dearth of supplies himself. "Can't be helped now. But this logging crew was probably coming out here every day to work, so we would've had to take care of them sooner or later. And this is three dozen rats neatly killed that we won't have to worry about facing later on."

"But if it raises the alarm to the rest ... "

"We'll just have to move up our own schedule," Matowick decided. "If the camp commanders are expecting this lot back by evening, they're gonna get us instead!"

"A night assault, sir?"

"Might be a better idea than the dawn attack we'd been planning anyway. Our first goal will still be to capture the watchtowers around the mill perimeter, and those will be easier to approach under cover of darkness. Once we have control of those, we'll have a commanding view over the entire compound and be able to shoot down on them."

Grapentine snickered. "Bet that scum never figured on their guard tower positions bein' used against 'em!"

"No, but seizing the towers at night presents problems for us too," Matowick reminded his sergeant. "We'll be shooting into the dark ... "

Grapentine grinned maliciously. "Oh, don't worry 'bout that, sir. Once th' rest of us sneak into the compound an' start setting all those buildings ablaze, there'll be plenty of light to see by - an' plenty of panicked vermin runnin' every which way for our archers to choose from!"

"That's the spirit, Sergeant. But we don't have those towers yet, and there are the shrews and otters to consider as well. Ah ... and here comes the creature who can tell us how things stand with our comrades."

Klystra the falcon captain came gliding in from the east, weaving his way between the widely-spaced treetrunks, so low to the ground that he was actually flying below the bare limbs. It was a maneuver that his larger cohort Altidor probably could not have managed, and necessary to keep the searat lookouts from suspecting that there might be military activity so close to their base of operations.

The falcon settled onto the trail before Matowick. "What word from the otters and shrews?" the squirrel asked.

"Saybrook in place south of mill, waiting in sea cave," Klystra reported. "Riveroll's larger force, Flusk's shrews just north of mill, hiding around curve of shore behind jetty. All can strike when you say."

"Good. Tell Riveroll and Flusk we attack at nightfall. We'll let Saybrook know - it would be too risky having you fly to his sea cave, it might tip our paw if the searats see you there. Good flying, Captain!"

"And good fighting to you, Captain." Klystra turned and got a running start along the logging trail back the way he'd come, away from the searat compound. When he left the ground, the falcon still stayed below the treetops to avoid detection. He was soon lost to even the squirrels' keen vision amongst the bare gray trees.

Grapentine flicked a paw at the corpses that lay all about them. "What should we do with them, sir?"

"Leave 'em. They've got nothing on them we can use, and they sure don't deserve any kind of decent burial. Let nature have 'em. We've got to get back to the main force and get ourselves into position for the assault. Let's get a move on - this daylight won't last forever! Browder! Browder, where'd you go? Oh, there you are, hidin' over there ... "

As the twoscore squirrels of Matowick's diversionary detachment faded through the forest to rejoin the rest of their army to the south, the Gawtrybe captain sought out his hare scout. "Browder, get down to that sea cave and let Captain Saybrook know there's been a change of plans, and we attack tonight."

"Me, Captain?" The hare seemed confused.

"Yes, you. I can't take a chance sending Altidor or Klystra out along the open coast to deliver messages, and you're a faster runner than any of my squirrels."

"But, it's jolly well open coast for me too! How'm I supposed t' get to that bally cave without bein' seen m'self?"

Matowick rolled his eyes skyward. Browder had been like this for the entire march; the squirrel captain couldn't believe that anybeast in Lord Urthblood's service could be so cowardly or troublesome, or that Browder was of the same species as the legendary Long Patrol. Running was about the only thing Browder was good at, and Matowick was confident that he would use that talent to run away from an honest fight as fast and as far as his legs could carry him.

"You're a hare," Matowick said in exasperation. "You're supposed to be good at going to ground and not being seen when you don't want to be. Just ... do what hares do."

"Easy for you to talk, chap. I haven't got that gray ash from our campfires smeared all through my fur, makin' me some kind o' flippin' gray ghost shadow warrior!"

"You're no kind of warrior, Browder."

"Well, I wasn't sent here t' be one!"

"No, you were sent here to follow orders. I was hoping you'd be enough of a hare to follow them without making a fuss about it every time, but clearly I was wrong." Matowick looked his reluctant messenger over from head to toe. Browder's fur was a uniform drab gray-brown, his travel tunic a dull green. Even without any of the soot on him, he was still better camouflaged than any of the ash-covered squirrels.

"You'll be fine," Matowick snapped off curtly. "If you're really worried about it, lie low in the scrub grass just above the cave until evening. You should still be able to deliver the message in good time. Saybrook's only got fifteen of his otters here, so if they're a little late joining the fray, they won't be missed that badly. But don't wait too long after sundown to let 'em know - if Saybrook misses this party after marchin' so many days to get here, you'll feel his javelin smacking down between your floppy ears."

Browder's paw went to the fuzzy dome of his beloved skull. "Oh, ah, point taken, wot? Um, wot should I do once I've delivered th' dispatch an' all that ratfur starts flyin'?"

"You can cower in that cave until springtime for all I jolly flippin' bally well care," Matowick snorted, and stalked past Browder to rejoin his fellow squirrels.

00000000000

From the wide windows of his third-floor office, Ostrok stood watching the blood-red late winter sun fall slowly into the western sea.

"Crute is running late," the mill manager said. "He's usually back by now."

"Prob'ly found 'imself a real big tree an' fell claws over tail in love with it!" Drecksage guffawed. "Or else he got it in mind t' take sev'ral 'cos t'was such a nice day. You know that rat an' his trees!"

"P'raps." Ostrok nodded halfheartedly.

"Prolly draggin' 'em back right now, an' he'll be through our gate before y' can pour yerself another cup o' grog." Which is what Drecksage immediately set about doing for himself.

"Is he often late?" Lutar inquired of Ostrok. He and the crew of the _Scorpiontail_ had not been staying at the mill as long as Drecksage had.

"He likes t' be back inside by full night," Ostrok replied. "Which means gettin' a start while th' sun's still in th' sky, 'specially now that they're cuttin' down trees further inta th' woods than ever before. Crute's overly cautious 'bout such things."

"Yah," Drecksage gulped at his drink, "never could figger that one's fear o' woodlanders that ain't even there!"

Ostrok shrugged. "Couple o' times he's misjudged, takin' a tree bigger'n he realized or more'n one at a time, an' it's taken him longer t' haul 'em back 'ere than he counted on. Prob'ly what happened this time too."

Lutar studied the mill operator. "Any cause fer alarm, y' think?"

Ostrok hesitated, then shook his head. "Naw. It's just that Crute also runs th' processin' lines too, where th' raw wood gets cut 'n' sectioned 'n' finished inta proper planks an' boards. He always does a thorough inspection ev'ry night after grub. Later he gets back, th' later that'll hafta wait."

"I thought you had slaves doin' all that work?" Lutar asked.

"Only th' hard 'n' simple labor," Ostrok replied. "Lotsa machines in our mills, nothin' you'd expect stupid woodland creatures t' unnerstand. Them mice 'n' 'hogs 'n' otters're always foulin' up th' works. An' when they do, it's up to Crute t' straighten out th' machines ... an' then straighten out th' slaves."

"An' that 'ee does," Drecksage nodded. "Meself, I'd hate t' be th' woodland slave standin' 'tween Crute an' our quota. More'n one of 'em's found out th' hard way that wood saws c'n be used fer cuttin' more'n just wood!"

"I'd imagine that'd gunk up th' blades somethin' awful," said Lutar.

"Oh, it does, it does," Drecksage affirmed. "But then y' just get some o' th' other slaves t' pick out all the' bits 'n' pieces from th' teeth, an' wash up all th' blood. Crute berlieves in settin' examples, an' no slave who sees one o' their own meet a footpaw-pumped table saw head on - or even tail-first - ain't ever gonna step outta line if they c'n help it, no they ain't!"

"Crute's th' oil that keeps this mill runnin' smooth, no doubt o' that," said Ostrok. "Couple o' times, when he's been laid up with fever or sickness, we've fallen way b'hind. Generally works out that one day wi'out Crute puts us two days off schedule."

"Then why do you let 'im go out inta th' woods, if he's so valuable?" Lutar asked.

"'Cos 'ee knows th' best trees fer cuttin', th' best ways to cut 'em, th' best ways t' haul 'em back here ... " Ostrok shrugged. "'sides, he likes goin' out inta th' forest, even if he is scared o' woodlanders." He turned his gaze eastward, toward the forest in which Crute no doubt toiled at that very moment. "If it gets much darker, I'll send out some more rats t' see if they've hit trouble. Just hope he hasn't gone an' broke a leg or sumpthin'. That'd be a disaster fer us."

If the three rat officers had known then what they would know later that night, they would have been very happy indeed if a Timbermaster with a broken leg was the worst of their problems.

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The Gawtrybe were already in place for their assault when the four rat scouts emerged from the gate of the lumber compound and jogged up the trail toward the forest.

Sergeant Grapentine was ranking squirrel of those positioned nearest the gate. The gathering twilight, along with the graying ash rubbed into their fur, had allowed the Gawtrybe to creep through the deepening shadows from bush to treestump to grass tuft, until they were a stone's throw from the perimeter of the mill site. Now the belly-to-the-ground squirrel archers watched the small party pass right by them on their way to see what was delaying Crute's crew.

"Oh, blast!" Grapentine muttered.

"Should we inform Captain Matowick, sir?" asked the squirrel on his right.

"Hmm ... no. No, we can handle this. Those four probably won't matter, but the Captain doesn't like loose ends, and neither do I. Blerim, Saberry, Arway ... disengage and go after 'em. There's always a chance they could discover the bodies and raise the alarm before we're ready, and I don't want anybeast forcing our paw. Make sure their tongues are stilled forever."

"Aye, sir!" The three assigned squirrels cautiously crept back away from the mill and went after the scoutrats.

Which still left nearly a hundred Gawtrybe encircling the compound, coiled to spring as soon as the falling night grew just a little darker.


	4. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

The searat guard towers were simple affairs, little more than roofed platforms raised two or three stories off the ground on stiltlike supports. The square observation decks had one support leg at each corner, with a long ladder in the middle that led up to an open hatchway in the center of each platform.

Squirrels, of course, could climb perfectly well without ladders.

Four Gawtrybe took each tower, shinnying ghostlike up each of the support timbers and flowing over the low walls in a stealthy assault that took the bored searat lookouts completely by surprise. Even the towers with as many as three rats in them were overwhelmed before any coherent cry of alarm could be announced. Blades flashed, daggers flew, and two dozen rat sentries thudded lifelessly to the floor planks of their watchtowers with slashed throats and pierced hearts.

More squirrels rushed forward and clambered up the ladders to deliver packed quivers to the quartet of snipers who now occupied each tower. Each team wanted to have at least one hundred arrows at the ready in case swarms of enraged searats flooded out of their ship and barracks and tried to retake the towers. There were nine of the structures, which meant that thirty-six Gawtrybe with over nine hundred shafts between them stood ready to rain swift death down upon the searat camp from every landward direction. It would be up to the shrews and otters to take care of the seaward side of things.

If all went according to plan, these tower-bound snipers would be merely a precaution, and might end up loosing very few of their shafts. But Urthblood's orders had been most explicit: not a single searat was to survive this engagement if it could be helped. Any who tried to escape over their own perimeter defenses would be cut down by Gawtrybe stationed in the very sentry posts meant to safeguard against such an attack.

With the watchtowers successfully captured, the remaining sixty-odd squirrels flooded under and past them into the compound. Most of the perimeter between the towers was fenced with sharp wooden spikes and strung with the even more treacherous knifewire, now invisible in the night. Matowick had decided against trying to cut their way through the wire; not only was this unnecessary with the towers in their control, but the intact defenses would impede fleeing rats who might, in the darkness and confusion of battle, very well end up impaled and entangled upon their own spikes and wire.

A number of the Gawtrybe had for the moment traded their longbows for casks of oil. Thanks to the aerial observations of Altidor and Saugus, they'd known even before leaving Salamandastron that most of the buildings here were partly or completely constructed of wood, and so they'd brought with them a score of small oil barrels. Now, with casks strapped to their backs and accompanied by escorts with blades and bows held at the ready, the oil-bearing squirrels proceeded to the buildings closest to the perimeter and scaled their wood walls up to the rooftops.

The clear skies meant a cold night, and this too worked in the attackers' favor, chasing most of the rats indoors to huddle against the winter chill. The only signs of outdoor activity were around the dockside tavern, and by the tower-like stone structure at the center of the compound. The squirrels were content to ignore those for now, since many more convenient targets were to be seen. These were barracks, mess hall, infirmary, storehouses, workshops, slave quarters and the main mill itself where the timber was cut and processed. This last building, at least twice the size of any of the others, the Gawtrybe also ignored, since it too was near the heart of the camp. As for the rest, the squirrels didn't know which were which. They knew only that these were buildings erected by searat claws, for the purpose of expanding and strengthening Tratton's empire. Urthblood had said to burn every structure on this site, and so they would burn.

Poised upon the various rooftops all around the compound, the squirrels poured their oil down the sides of the wood walls, then jumped back down to the ground even as their fellows rushed forward with shielded lamps to ignite the oil-soaked timber.

Within the space of heartbeats, the searat lumber mill sprang ablaze on all sides.

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Out at sea to the north, and farther along the shore to the south, many watching eyes saw the buildings come alight against the night, and took that as their signal to join the attack.

Captain Saybrook, standing out on the pebbly tideline with his heavy-duty crank awl in paw, declared, "Well, mateys, looks like Cap'n Matowick's got roast rat on th' menu! Time fer a cold night's swim. Every otter in th' water, an' follow my lead! We got us a boat t' sink!"

Browder hunkered on the beach above the tidal zone, paws clutched to his shoulders in defense against the fur-piercing breeze blowing in off the ocean as he watched the otters with their prybars and paw drills diving into the surf. "Um, er, good luck, wot?" he said in a voice that nobeast else could hear.

When the last otter's rudderlike tail had vanished beneath the water, Browder retreated to the cave once more. At least it was warmer in there.

Meanwhile, to the north, four dozen logboats full of shrews and otters began silently paddling toward the searat dreadnought _Scorpiontail_.

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The Gawtrybe team led by Sergeant Custis had just set fire to a large, windowless shack on the north side of the camp. He'd assumed it was some kind of storehouse, but within moments of the first flames licking up its side there came a frantic frenzy of pounding pawfists from within. This made no sense to Custis; if this was a barracks or workshop, why didn't the occupants merely run out the front door? It was only the rear of the building that was engulfed. Then the answer hit him.

It was a storehouse, all right - a storehouse for living creatures.

Rallying his small team, Custis ran around to the front of the structure. There they found two rats guarding the only door, which was barred from the outside. The guards were staring straight ahead at two other buildings across the site that had also caught fire; apparently it hadn't occurred to them that their own might be in a similar state. Thus preoccupied, they didn't even notice the squirrels rounding the corner until moments before expertly aimed shafts laid them low forever.

Custis threw up the lock bar and wrenched the door open. A mouse, an otter, two more mice and a hedgehog practically spilled out onto the ground amidst a billow of smoke. There were even more woodlanders lined up behind them, coughing and choking and pawing at their eyes.

The Sergeant and one of his companions set to helping the fallen to their feet and ushering the others out of the burning building while the rest of his team covered them with drawn bowstrings.

"Are there any other slaves anywhere else in this compound?" Custis demanded.

"Might be some workin' in th' mill," the otter said.

"Are you here to free us?" a female mouse asked with haunted and hopeful eyes.

"We're here to slay every bilgerat in this camp," Custis declared, "an' we're not goin' anywhere until that's done."

As if to underscore his point, his squirrels cut down two more rat guards who came running at them with drawn swords. The otter stared with wide eyes at the buildings that came ablaze, one after another, even as he watched. "Yah, I believe that ... "

"But, there're too many!" a cowering male mouse wailed. "Why, that big ship alone's got over two hundred fighting rats in it, plus its regular crew, plus the crew of the mill, plus ... plus ... "

"Plus nothing!" Custis spat. "They're about to meet a hundred of the finest archerbeasts who've ever lived ... _plus_ an army of shrews and otters who mean to sink those two boats out there."

Many of the faces reflected in the firelight, which blossomed brighter with each passing moment, showed hope and relief and determination, while others registered only disbelief, confusion, or the lingering fear of continued slavery.

"Sounds good t' me!" the otter burst out. "Need a paw? 'Cos I bet you got a few willin' ones here!"

Custis grinned. "Won't be an easy fight, but if you're up for it ... welcome aboard, matey!"

While most of the slaves were escorted toward the comparative safety of the perimeter guard towers, the otter, hedgehog, a squirrel and a mouse relieved the fallen rats of their weapons.

Urthblood's forces had just gained four new fighters.

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Across the way in another part of the site, Captain Matowick had discovered the main rat barracks.

Matowick and more than a dozen of his fellow squirrels formed themselves into a shooting line twoscore paces from the building's door, from where they mowed down the frantic searats as fast as the rodents could flee the burning structure. Dozens of rat corpses quickly fell to litter the cold ground for many paces around the doorway in every direction.

Now, realizing that venturing forth into the night meant instant death, the remaining rats milled and jostled just inside the doorway, debating what to do next. If they stayed inside the barracks, they would burn to death; if they set foot outside, the lethal and accurate shafts of the Gawtrybe would claim them.

They quickly opted for a third alternative. Unlike the slaves' quarters, the searat barracks was well supplied with windows on all sides, and on both floors. The trapped rats didn't hesitate to smash the panes with whatever furniture was at paw and launch themselves through the jagged window frames, even if it meant a potentially ankle-twisting drop from the second story.

Even using these alternative routes, many were still taken by Gawtrybe arrows. One rat, who was a fairly skilled archerbeast himself, had the presence of mind through the thickening smoke to grab up his bow and quiver and position himself at one of the second floor windows above the front door. He was able to kill one squirrel with his first shot, but when he popped up a second time with arrow drawn back upon his bowstring, a pair of Gawtrybe shafts found him before he could loose his arrow.

Those who made it out the side windows and avoided immediate death by arrow could see by the light of the many burning buildings that their foes were swarming all throughout the encampment. Some rats ran toward the shore, hoping to dodge the life-seeking arrows long enough to reach the imagined safety of the tavern (still not yet in flames) or to rouse the main fighting force of Lutar's aboard the _Scorpiontail_. Others abandoned all hope of resistance and, thinking only of their own lives, sprinted for the perimeter to flee the fighting. They hadn't counted on the Gawtrybe archers waiting for them in their own watchtowers.

Some of the rats who'd chosen the seaward path made it to the tavern or the docks with their lives. But none who had chosen the perimeter route made it out of the camp alive.

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Captain Lutar had been about to take his leave of Ostrok and Drecksage and rejoin his crew aboard the _Scorpiontail_ when the attack began.

The three commanding rats watched in growing disbelief from Ostrok's third-floor office as one wooden structure after another burst into flames. One fire might have been a perfectly reasonable accident or mishap, and two might have been an uncanny coincidence, but to see nearly a dozen buildings come ablaze at once could mean only one thing.

"It's an attack!" Lutar hissed; as the only one of their trio with in-depth battle experience, he was the first to recognize the unfolding incident for what it was. He turned to Ostrok and snarled, "Put out that lamp, quick! We must see what's goin' on out there!" Even as he spoke, Lutar was on his way across the room to extinguish the two wall lamps.

From the darkened office, they had a clear view of the slaughter taking place in front of the burning barracks. The speed with which the dead mounted was appalling.

"My rats!" Ostrok cried. "Those are all my rats!"

"Now we know why Crute's team never returned," Lutar forced out through clenched fangs. "They must've been ambushed!"

Ostrok's head spun in confusion. "I don't unnerstan' ... where'd they come from? We cleared th' forest o' woodlanders ... "

"Those ain't woodlanders," Lutar grimaced, appraising the situation with a trained tactical eye. "They're warriors, an' good ones too, to've staged such a coordinated assault." He turned and started for the stairs.

"Where're y' goin'?" Ostrok asked, panic and fear plain in his voice.

"To th' _Scorpiontail_. Th' fightin' hasn't reached th' dock an' tavern yet, an' I aim t' be back on board my ship afore it does!"

"Yes!" Ostrok said with rising hope. "Yes, Cap'n, rally yer fightin' troops! Unleash 'em on the enemy! Save th' mill!"

Lutar paused at the top of the stairs, glancing over his shoulder. "This mill's already lost," he sneered at Ostrok, "an' King Tratton would have yer head fer it, except I reckon those squirrels out there'll beat him to it. Ain't but one beast alive who'd dare a move this bold, an' that big red badger's troops don't take prisoners. Now, excuse me, I gotta go save my ship." The captain pounded down the stairs, his pawsteps rapidly receding.

"Um ... um ... guess I'd best be gettin' back to th' _Wavehauler_ m'self," Drecksage muttered, and followed ponderously in Lutar's wake, leaving Ostrok alone to watch his miniature empire burn.

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The mill factory often operated well after dark, and sometimes straight through the night. And since it was a largely windowless structure, it was some time before the rats and slaves toiling within realized that the rest of the site was burning down around them.

Kurdyla was an otter working in the mill that fateful night, and Kurdyla was playing a game with himself. Eleven days before, he'd seen his mouse friend Jurs sawed in half at the waist as punishment for having accidentally spilled a pan of sawdust into some of the machine works. Normally a brave and composed creature, Jurs had begun to bawl like a baby upon realizing what he'd done, and what fate probably awaited him at the claws of the sadistic Crute and Crute's equally sadistic chief assistant Thresher. The rats had shown no mercy to Jurs as they'd held the screaming mouse down while Kurdyla and the other slaves were forced at swordpoint to crank the handles that, through a system of gears and pulleys, made the big circular blade of the table saw spin fast enough to chew through hardwood. His friend's futile pleas for leniency and all-too-quickly silenced howls of pain had haunted Kurdyla in his sleep every night since.

The game Kurdyla played in his mind was a simple one. For every day that passed since Jurs' death, the otter envisioned himself slaying one rat in retribution. It was just a daydream, he knew, a grim fantasy that would help get him through each day. He knew it would never actually happen.

For one thing, Kurdyla was a "problem" slave who'd given his rat masters trouble ever since they'd taken him from his mostly-slaughtered holt three seasons before. But his strength and endurance made him too valuable to put under the blade, so they'd manacled him at wrist and ankle so that he could do no more than shuffle, and could not spread his forepaws any farther apart than the width of his own skull. They also kept him in line by threatening the more helpless slaves with harm if he should misbehave. So, Kurdyla would swallow his pride, quell his rage, bow his head and do as he was told.

Not that that had helped Jurs any.

But there were still many other slaves who could be victimized, and so Kurdyla sought no revenge, killing only in his mind. For his own life he cared nothing - death would have been preferable to life as a slave, and if he could take several of his tormentors with him, he would consider it a fair trade - but he knew that if he tried to slay any of these searats, the surviving slaves would pay a terrible price. Crute and Ostrok might even keep him alive long enough to watch them torture his fellow slaves. That was how these searats did things around here, and they made sure everybeast knew it.

And thus it was that Kurdyla found himself at his usual station, cranking the handles to spin the blade to saw the wood to make the timber to build Tratton's ships and garrisons, utterly unaware of the mayhem breaking out all around him.

"Hey, I smell smoke," one of the rat workers sniffed.

"Yeah," a guard concurred. In truth, all the rats and slaves in the mill had smelled it by this time. "I better go make sure it ain't nothin' serious."

"You do that," sneered Thresher, the assistant Timbermaster. With Crute away in the woods, Thresher was in charge of the factory. "An' tell us quick if there's aught we oughtta know."

"Right, sir," the guard said, ignoring the degrading tone in his superior's voice, and rushed away to comply. Even before he'd reached the door and opened it to step outside, the smoke odor grew noticeably more pungent. And when the door opened, shouts and screams could be heard in the distance.

Kurdyla the otter happened to be looking that way when the guard opened the door, and he caught a glimpse of the dark of night beyond. It was easy to lose track of time inside the mostly windowless mill, since the slavemasters often worked their charges until the work of the day was finished, or until the slaves collapsed from exhaustion. But it was unusual for Crute not to have returned by nightfall ... and, on second glance, there was something odd about the darkness that Kurdyla glimpsed through that momentarily open door - the hint of a dancing glow that should not have been there.

Kurdyla straightened, removing his paws from the crank handle. With his strength subtracted from the task, his fellow slaves weren't able to keep the circular sawblade spinning fast enough, and the log that some of the other slaves were pushing along the tabletop caught and snagged on the teeth of the slowed blade, which quickly ground to a standstill.

"Hey!" Thresher instantly rounded on the delinquent otter. "Hey, you! Whaddya think ye're doin'?"

Kurdyla stared wordlessly past Thresher at the door.

The guard reappeared a heartbeat later. "Fire!" he shouted. "Buildings on fire!"

Thresher turned to the guard, while every other rat and every slave held its breath. In a timber mill, surrounded by wood and sawdust on all sides, fire was not something to be treated lightly.

"Whaddya mean? Which building?"

"All of 'em! It's an attack! We're under - "

The guard's words were cut off as an arrowhead sprouted from his throat, and he toppled down the steps onto the floor of the mill and lay still.

Time seemed to stand still for Kurdyla. In a frozen moment, everything clicked into place in his mind. Crute had not returned by nightfall, as he almost always did, and somebeasts were attacking the compound ... were outside right now, killing searats and setting fire to their buildings. This could mean only one thing.

Before the guard had even hit the floor, Kurdyla muttered, "Crute is dead." The words were like the taste of freedom on his tongue.

"Huh? What?" Thresher stared uncomprehending at the otter. The other rats were hastening to take up positions at all the entrances into the mill, but the assistant Timbermaster stood rooted to one spot.

"Crute is dead," the otter repeated, clearly directing the liberating words into Thresher's face.

"Bah! Y' don't know that fer sure, fishbreath!" The rat raised the whipping wand that he always carried and lashed it across Kurdyla's face. It left a cut from ear to jawline, but the otter didn't flinch or blink from the blow.

"Crute is dead ... an' so are you."

Looking into Kurdyla's hate-filled eyes, Thresher realized too late he'd made a fatal mistake in approaching the otter so closely. He tried to duck away, but Kurdyla had his paws over and down around the rat's neck by then, the short chain of his manacles cutting into Thresher's throat.

Thresher was a big bully of a rat, as strong as he was cruel and as formidable as he was ugly. But he was no match for Kurdyla, a burly otter in his prime who'd only been made more muscular by three seasons of forced labor. Thresher strove to draw his short cutlass, so that he could drive it back into the otter's belly, but the fight was over before he had the chance. Kurdyla wrenched back his paws with maniacal strength, and there was a satisfying crack as his chains crushed the struggling rat's windpipe. But not satisfying enough for Kurdyla, who continued to pull on the manacle chains until they cut deep into the flesh, and Thresher's head hung half-severed from his body. Only then did Kurdyla release his grip, letting the lifeless body crumple to the floor.

The other rats, looking on in horror, didn't know whether to rush Kurdyla or stay by the doors. The otter suffered no such hesitation, snatching up a spare blade for one of the mill's band saws - machines that sawed from side-to-side on yet another system of gears and pulleys. The blade was long and heavy and wickedly toothed along one edge. And in the paws of Kurdyla, few things would have been deadlier.

Two rats guards rushed him. The saw blade snapped their swords right out of their grasps, leaving them helpless before the otter's wrath. Kurdyla took one across the side of the neck, hacking halfway through, then brought the heavy sawblade straight down upon the other's skull.

Two more rats fell as Sergeant Custis and his squirrels burst through an unprotected door and began unleashing arrows.

"Don't hit any of the slaves!" Custis shouted to his team, then yelled out, "Slaves, rally to me! Slaves, rally to me!"

"_JURS!_" Kurdyla had taken up his murdered mouse friend's name as his battle cry, and now led his fellow slaves across the factory floor. A few of them grabbed up the weapons of the fallen rats and whatever other lethal implements they could lay paws upon. It was woe to any rat who got between them and the door where the Gawtrybe awaited.

The rats at the other doors had all escaped into the battle-tossed night, except for a few of the slower ones who now lay with Gawtrybe shafts in them. Those down on the main mill floor scurried this way and that, striving to get away from the rebelling, retribution-minded slaves.

Custis lowered his bow, as did his comrades. "Stay ready," he advised, "although it doesn't look like they need much help from us at the moment."

"_JURS!_"

Urthblood's army had picked up another gaggle of supporters ... and one vengeance-starved berserker.


	5. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Lutar ran as he had never run in his life.

Emerging from the door of Ostrok's stone overseer's tower - which, thankfully, faced seaward, putting the bulk of the tower between him and most of the deadly squirrel archers - the searat captain went into a low crouch and sprinted across the sandy soil as quickly as his footclaws could carry him. By weaving his way in and out among other rats who were fleeing from the barracks massacre, Lutar was able to avoid the occasional Gawtrybe shaft launched their way. One or two rats fell alongside him, but Lutar reached the tavern unscathed.

He paused at the tavern door, glancing toward the dock. There were signs of bustling activity on and around the _Scorpiontail_, as crewrats and fighters aboard the warship became alerted to the trouble ashore, and started spilling onto the dock in preparation of action.

"Stay there, my rats, stay," Lutar muttered under his breath. "Don't go rushin' inta battle half-cocked without knowin' yer enemy. Wait fer yer Captain." With that, he kicked open the tavern door as hard as he could.

The door smashed against the inner wall with a bang that could be heard over the carousing of the rats within. All eyes turned toward the authoritative figure standing in the doorway.

"Attack!" Lutar bellowed, cutting off all conversation in the tavern. "We're under attack! All crew of the _Scorpiontail_, grab yer weapons an' fall back t' the dock with me! We gotta defend th' ships!"

It took only moments for a living flow of Lutar's disciplined fighters to come streaming toward the door at their captain's command, their drinks and revelry forgotten. The less well-trained rats from the _Wavehauler_ and Ostrok's mill command took longer to react, sitting dumbfounded at their tables and benches and counters. One called out, "What should we do, Cap'n?"

"Ostrok's still in 'is tower, an' it ain't been attacked yet," Lutar shouted back, "so ye might wanna rally to 'im there. The rest o' you might wanna stay 'ere an' hold this tavern ... if y' can."

And then the captain of the _Scorpiontail_ was gone, along with his crew, rushing toward the dock to consolidate his army and safeguard his ship.

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Captain Drecksage emerged from Ostrok's command tower a short time after Lutar did, but the lean fighting captain was already long gone, nowhere to be seen.

"Must've made it awright," Dresage muttered. "An' if 'ee can do it, I can too!" Ignoring the fact that a few widely-scattered rat corpses already littered the stretch between him and the shore, Drecksage started his run for safety.

But Drecksage did not crouch, as Lutar had done. He did not bob and weave, as Lutar had done. And he was not nearly as fast on his feet as the lean captain of the _Scorpiontail_ was. So it was hardly surprising when he fell to the ground after fewer than a dozen paces with two Gawtrybe arrows in his wide back, never to rise again.

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Drecksage had no way of knowing it at the moment of his death, but his cargo ship the _Wavehauler_ was already lost.

Captain Saybrook's otter team had reached the giant oceangoing barge by this time, and had swum around to the port side of the vessel where they would be shielded by the dock as they worked. Now they attacked the wood hull below the waterline with their awls and prybars, drilling holes and peeling away boards in order to flood the ship.

While a dozen of the otters labored thus, Saybrook and two others climbed aboard the _Wavehauler_, ignored and unseen by the milling soldier rats aboard the _Scorpiontail_ and on the pier, whose attention was commanded by the impossible scene unfolding ashore.

The _Wavehauler_, being a cargo vessel, did not have a particularly large crew, and most of them were enjoying shore leave at the tavern when hostilities commenced. Captain Drecksage had seen fit to post only two guards to watch over his ship and slaves in his absence. After all, with an attack dreadnought moored across the dock from it and all the oarslaves chained to their benches, what possible danger could threaten the Wavehauler?

Creeping stealthily through the ship, Saybrook's trio quickly found and forever silenced the two guardrats. Then they turned their attention to the slaves.

The _Wavehauler_ was built like a giant floating tray with tall, wide sides. It was in the long port and starboard side blocks that the slave galleys were located. Lacking sails of any kind, the cargo ship was propelled solely by the muscle power of its oarslaves.

Saybrook's nose wrinkled as he stepped down into the port rowing galley. He'd helped Lord Urthblood liberate many slaves in the Northlands, but this was his first time aboard a searat vessel, and he was unprepared for the putrid conditions under which these unfortunate creatures were imprisoned. This was an existence that denied the captive beasts both their freedom and all vestiges of dignity. The sight and smell made Saybrook want to head back up to the dock and start throttling searats with his bare paws. But he had a job to do here, so he forced himself to it.

"Ahoy, friends!" he greeted the disbelieving slavebeasts, who stared at him in the paltry glow cast by a pair of dim lamps. "There's searats aplenty dyin' tonight, an' this boat's goin' down! An' since I wager you ain't keen on goin' down with it, what say we ditch this stinkbucket? Uh, anybeast 'ere happen t' know where them scurvy seabags keep th' keys fer yer chains?"

"There aren't any, Mr. Otter sir," a mouse near the front of the galley spoke up. "There are no locks. We're all chained inta place permanent-like."

"Oh." Saybrook shrugged and held up his crowbar. "Whelp, we didn't bring anything fer cuttin' chains, but we should be able t' wrench those chain brackets right outta th' moldy woodwork. Then you'll be able t' get outta here, chained t'gether in groups o' three or four."

"Did you come in a boat?" the mouse asked timidly as Saybrook and his two companions set to work on prying the chain hooks out of the hull; these were awkwardly positioned in random places so that not even the strongest slave would easily be able to lever them free. "We can't go ashore - that's where all the rats are. And we can't swim with our chains on ... "

"Ashore might actshully be th' safest place now, 'cos that's where most o' th' rats are doin' their dyin'," Saybrook grunted, prying free one chain loop and moving on to the next. "Unfortunately, th' dock's clogged with searats just at th' moment, so y' won't be goin' that way. We got a fleet o' shrew logboats comin' in from th' north, but they'll be engagin' that big warship across th' way, so they might not be available right away. But don't fret yerselves - we'll figger out somethin' before this tub's under th' waves!"

Even as he said this, water started spraying in from several of the drill holes the otters outside were making, dampening the oarslaves' footpaws. "Well, wotever ye're gonna think of, better make it quick," a hedgehog declared.

Saybrook's companion Rosbor laughed as he tugged free a hook from the bulkhead. "I don't think we got anything t' worry about on that score."

"Whatcha got in mind, Ross?"

"Didn't y' notice, Cap'n? This crate's partly loaded with cut lumber."

Saybrook paused in thought. "You mean ... ?"

Rosbor nodded. "When th' water washes over th' sides, all them boards'll start floatin' every which way, an' presto! This sad gang'll have all th' rafts they need!"

"An' Riveroll 'n' Flusk'll be keepin' those rats up topside too busy t' worry 'bout stoppin' some runaway slaves ... "

"Floataway slaves, y' mean!"

Saybrook grinned. "I do like yer thinkin', Rossy!"

Rosber grimaced as he stepped in a pile of filth under one slave bench. "Ugh! Don't they ever shovel it out down 'ere?"

"Sometimes they give us a pot to use," a female squirrel said. "But not usually."

"Don't worry 'bout it, Ross, ye'll be washin' yer paws in nice clean seawater soon 'nuff." He smiled at the slaves before him. "We all will."

00000000000

Lutar made it to the _Scorpiontail_ with his life. In no time at all he was able to rally his fighters, and nearly two hundred and fifty battle-hardened rat soldiers clogged the head of the dock. But he did not send them charging ashore to engage the squirrel archers. Lutar knew the site was a loss, its buildings burned and most of its rats already dead. The searat captain was more concerned with keeping the enemy off the dock and away from his ship. The pier was a long one, and the Scorpiontail was moored well out from shore to keep the dreadnought clear of the shallows in these frequently choppy waters. Now, an impenetrable mob of armed searats blocked off this only access the Gawtrybe had to the mighty warship, ensuring that the Scorpiontail would be safe.

Lutar and his rats didn't notice how the _Wavehauler_ had started listing slightly to port, scraping against the dockside, nor did they see the line of freed oarslaves emerging from belowdecks and ducking their way between the stacks of lumber aboard the cargo ship.

But most of all, they were still unaware of the fleet of small enemy boats closing on the _Scorpiontail_ from the north.

While his fighters held the dock secure, Lutar's regular crew of a hundred and fifty scrambled to make the _Scorpiontail_ ready for a swift departure. The ship's sails had been tightly furled for this extended shore leave. Lutar was undecided as to whether he would mount a counteroffensive against the squirrels on shore - he probably had enough of a strength to prevail in such a match - but those archerbeasts were lethal, and if he decided not to risk the heavy losses such a charge would surely entail, then Lutar wanted to be able to be gone before these demon squirrels could get within easy shooting range.

Of course, thanks to their formidable longbows, most of the Gawtrybe already were within range of the rats guarding the dock, if not the _Scorpiontail_ herself. A team of five squirrels had charged ahead to the tavern, but instead of stopping to shoot at the rats who came pouring out of the saloon, they dodged around the vermin and climbed the outside of the tavern up to its roof. From there they had a clear shot at Lutar's living blockade assembling at the head of the dock, and began picking off as many rats as they could. But Lutar had archers of his own, which he quickly sent forward into his front ranks, and soon the five roofbound squirrels were furiously exchanging arrowfire with over a score of the searats.

Elsewhere in the camp, other Gawtrybe were having similar tactical ideas. Over a dozen, including Captain Matowick and his Lieutenant Perricone, had scaled the sides of the main mill building and now stood on its roof, mopping up what few rats could still be seen scurrying amongst the burning structures. From there they could also snipe at the rats on the dock and around the saloon, but in the poor light about half their shafts fell short, and Matowick soon called a halt to the more long range sniping.

"Save your arrows, otherwise we'll deplete our supply and have to resort to paw-to-paw combat, and I'm not ready to do that just yet."

Perricone paused to scratch at her chin with the top of her bow. "Why aren't they charging, Captain?"

"Must've given up the mill for lost, and don't want to waste themselves rushing headlong into our arrows," Matowick correctly guessed. "Their captain's no idiot. I'd do the same thing. Looks like they might be getting ready to sail. They just want to keep us at arm's length until they're able to make their getaway."

"You don't suppose they'll make it, sir? I thought Captains Saybrook, Riveroll and Flusk were gonna take care of that ship? What's taking them?"

"Seas are a little rough tonight," Matowick said. "Give them time - they'll be here."

"Yeah, but we were counting on them to drive those vermin off their ship and right into our field of fire." Perricone gestured toward the occupied guard towers, whose archers had yet to join the main battle. "That's how we were planning to take care of most of 'em. And that's a lot of rats I see down on that pier."

"It may still come to that," Matowick said hopefully. "Maybe if we make it too costly for them to stay in one place ... " He called down to Sergeant Custis, running by below with a few of the freed slaves. "Sergeant, gather a dozen or a score of archers and go forward to engage the front lines of those rats on the dock! Our mates up on the tavern roof might need a paw - they'll find themselves cut off quickly if those vermin all surge forward at once and surround the tavern. But see if you can get 'em to do just that. We wanna draw them into our circle here."

"I'm on it, Captain!" Custis threw a quick salute, then rushed off to assemble his harrying team.

Off in the violent orange night, somewhere among the dancing flames, a bloodcurdling scream was abruptly cut off. Kurdyla the berserker otter had gotten his paws on another rat, and was well on the way to settling the score for his mousefriend Jurs.

00000000000

It was the searats high up in the rigging of the _Scorpiontail_, working to get the sails unfurled, who first sighted the scattered fleet of logboats bearing down on them from the north.

"Enemy t' starboard! Enemy, comin' in from th' north!"

The cry was quickly picked up and relayed throughout the ship, and soon scores of searats crowded the starboard railing with drawn cutlasses and sharpened poles at the ready to repel any invader who tried to board the _Scorpiontail_.

The attack dreadnought had two full bosuns. One of them, Shuke by name, hastily disembarked from the vessel and raced along the pier to find Lutar. "Cap'n! Cap'n! We got lots o' liddle boats movin' in on th' _Scorpiontail_ from th' north! Looks like they mean t' engage us!"

"Liddle boats? Whaddya mean, Shuke?"

"Log things, like them shrews use, Cap'n."

"Well, are they shrews?" Lutar demanded.

"Not close 'nuff t' tell yet, Cap'n. But there sure are a lot of 'em. Couple dozen at least, by th' look of it."

"Hellsteeth!" Lutar glanced toward the head of the dock, wondering whether he should pull back some of his archers there to help fend off this new threat. He decided not to; it looked as if more of those damnable squirrels might be closing in to increase the pressure on his front ranks, and besides, shrews never used bow and arrow very much. As long as there weren't more squirrels on any of those logboats, his regular crew should have little trouble fending off anybeasts who came alongside the _Scorpiontail_.

Still, he thought he'd better see this for himself. As Lutar jogged back to his ship at Shuke's heels, a tortured scraping and tearing filled the night. Glancing to his left, the searat captain saw the _Wavehauler_ going way offkilter on its port side and dipping low in the water. As Lutar watched, the cargo ship crunched its way below the dock, its port side disappearing beneath the pier decking.

Lutar harrumphed loudly and called out to his crewrats, "Hey, any o' you seaweed skulls happen to notice th' _Wavehauler_'s sinkin'?"

His inquiry was met with uncertain and incredulous silence.

Lutar and Shuke and a few of the others stepped over to the south edge of the dock and gazed down. The port slave block and rowing galley of the rectangular vessel was now almost completely submerged, and the starboard block was riding lower in the water than it should have been.

"She's been scuttled!" Lutar declared. "Shuke, get inspection teams belowdecks on th' _Scorpiontail_ to keep a close eye on the inner hull an' make sure nobeast's tryin' t' do the same to us!"

The bosun stammered, "But ... but ... them shrew boats ain't reached us yet! How could they've done this?"

"There was obviously another enemy force sent in from th' south," Lutar explained impatiently. "Prob'ly otters, seein' as how they were able t' get so close without bein' seen. Well, don't jus' stand there, Shuke! Get a move on!"

"Yes, Cap'n! Right away, sir!" The bosun turned to obey.

"Oh, an' Shuke!"

"Um, yessir?"

"Get th' oars staffed while ye're at it. We might not have time t' get th' sails all unfurled. An' with these squirrels usin' fire like they are, I don't wanna give 'em our full spread o' canvas fer a target!"

"But, sir! We'll need all available deckpaws t' stave off them shrews comin' in on starboard!"

"You jus' do whatcher told, Shuke, an' leave th' thinkin' 'round here t' me!"

"Um, right! Yessir, Cap'n!" Shuke's tail disappeared up the gangplank onto the _Scorpiontail_.

Lutar pointed to another rat standing on the dock nearby. "You! Get to th' head of th' dock an' sound a retreat! We're pullin' back to th' _Scorpiontail_!"

"Aye, Cap'n!"

Lutar stood watching the _Wavehauler_ flounder her last. As the waves washed over the cargo vessel, he saw to his amazement all the slaves emerge from their hiding places amidst the lumber stacks and hop up onto the boards which had started to float upon the wavewash. A dozen shiny dark otter heads appeared at the edges of the improvised lifeboats as the strong waterbeasts began propelling the boards bearing the freed slaves southward and shoreward, away from the fighting.

Lutar threw himself onto his belly against the dock planks, on the offchance that any of the otters might stop to launch a slingstone or javelin his way. But they all seemed concentrated on getting the slaves to safety. The searat captain chuckled to himself.

"Harr harr! Just like woodlanders, goin' to all th' trouble o' freein' th' slaves before sinkin' our ships! Now I know th' _Scorpiontail_'s gonna be fine! They'll dare not sink her or burn her if they think there's slaves who'll die. An' th' fools don't know King Tratton keeps slaves off alla his best attack ships to guard against a revolt! They'll never guess this dreadnought's crewed by rats an' nobeast else! We'll get clean away 'fore they c'n stop us!"

"Don't count on it, matey," came a voice from directly below him. Captain Saybrook, clinging to the dock pylon he'd climbed, had heard every word of Lutar's boasting to himself.

The searat, eyes wide in shocked surprise, moved to raise himself from the plank decking, but too late. Saybrook's javelin found a gap in the boards and drove up through Lutar's stomach with such force that it severed his spine and came right up through his back.

As he drew the last shuddering breath he would ever take, Lutar heard the disembodied voice below him say, "That takes care o' you, bilgescum! Now let's see t' yore ship!"

00000000000

Moments later, the retreating rat army hastening back to defend the _Scorpiontail_ discovered Lutar's lifeless corpse splayed upon the pier, pinned to the dock by an otter javelin that had wedged itself between the boards beneath the dead searat.

The mill was captured and burning, the _Wavehauler_ was sunk, enemy were closing in on all sides, and now their captain was dead. For the first time, looking at Lutar's impaled form, the searats knew despair.

That despair was soon to deepen, for Rosbor was swimming to the shrew logboats and Saybrook was wading ashore where the Gawtrybe awaited, both otters delivering the message that the _Scorpiontail_ carried no slaves.

The full, unrestrained destructive fury of Urthblood's forces could now be unleashed upon the pirate dreadnought.


	6. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

The battle didn't last much longer after that - but its spectacular final act was one that nobeast anticipated.

The rat fighters piled aboard the _Scorpiontail_ and took up defensive positions all around the railings. The first mate Gribbon and Lutar's top lieutenant Corprew assumed an unspoken joint command of the vessel in their captain's absence, with Corprew coordinating the defenses while Gribbon concentrated on getting the craft underway and out of danger.

Urthblood's forces closed in from both sides. Now that the head of the dock was clear of the rat swarm, dozens of Gawtrybe arrayed themselves in a wide shooting arc in front of the tavern on shore, their quickly-improvised flaming arrows falling in a continuous hail upon the _Scorpiontail_. A few of the squirrels fell to searat arrows, but most of the shafts loosed from the pirate ship fell short, while nearly every Gawtrybe arrow found its mark.

The shooting squirrels didn't have to worry about being attacked from behind by the rats who'd been holed up in the tavern. Kurdyla and the other slaves had made it there, and were exacting a heavy toll upon their former masters. The besieged rats were too busy fighting for their very lives to give the Gawtrybe any trouble.

Meanwhile, along the northward-facing starboard railing of the searat dreadnought, Corprew had his remaining archers fire wildly at the approaching logboats. The rats were most surprised when their arrows were answered with a volley of shafts from the fleet of tiny boats. Several rats screamed and tumbled overboard, short shrew arrows protruding from their chests or necks. Otter slingstones mingled with the shrew missiles, claiming a searat or two of their own.

"What?" Corprew cried in dismay. "Shrews ain't s'posed t' be usin' arrers!"

"Guess nobeast told '_em_ that, 'tenant," Shuke the bosun said, and received a solid cuff across the ear for his trouble.

There came a chorus of splashes out of the night as a squad of otters dove from the logboats and stroked their way toward the _Scorpiontail_. The black waters hid them completely, and they were at the hull of the craft and working at it with drills and prybars and axes before the rats could do anything about it.

In spite of all this, it was looking to be a protracted and drawn-out battle of attrition in which both sides would lose many lives. Even after the shrews started lighting their own arrows afire, there were simply too many rats aboard the _Scorpiontail_ for this tactic to be effective. No matter how many flaming shafts the Gawtrybe and shrews unleashed at their target, there was always a rat at paw to extinguish the flames before they could take and spread, regardless of where the fiery arrows fell. Perhaps the diligence with which the crewrats undertook their firefighting duties should have told the woodlanders something, but the significance of this behavior was lost in the confusion of battle.

With scores of rats to take the oars, the searats would surely be well away before the otters could successfully hole the hull enough to flood belowdecks. It was beginning to look as if Urthblood's forces would have to attack the _Scorpiontail_ more directly, and perhaps even board her, if they wanted to prevent her from escaping. The toll in lives in such a venture would be staggering.

But Lord Urthblood had said not to leave a single rat alive, and his captains were determined to carry out those orders.

The mooring ropes were untied, the oarsrats bent their backs to their task, and the _Scorpiontail_ began to edge away from the pier.

"Aha! There we go!" Corprew roared in victory. "We'll be away from 'ere afore they c'n damage us! Death to anybeast who comes 'tween us an' th' high seas!"

Shuke ran up to Corprew in a panic. "Lieutenant, sir, a gang o' otters attacked th' stern! We was able t' kill three or four of 'em, but they chopped off our rudder!"

"Don't we have a spare down in stores?"

"Uh, yeah, but we won't be able t' steer until we get it put on."

"Just get us away from shore!" Corprew shouted. "Once we're out on th' open main, an' no longer under attack, we c'n take as long as we please t' make repairs!"

"Er, aye aye, sir!"

The Gawtrybe on the shore, seeing the _Scorpiontail_ starting to shift her position, crowded onto the head of the dock, but never slacked off in their volley of fiery arrows. Some rats aboard the ship were still falling under that barrage, but many more were not.

"Captain, should we go out after them?" Lieutenant Perricone asked. The squirrel archermaid obviously meant farther out along the pier, since the Gawtrybe had no way to pursue their quarry across the water as the shrews and otters could.

Matowick pursed his lips in contemplation, then nodded. "Okay, let's give our otter and shrew comrades what help we can while that ship's still in arrow range. Gawtrybe! Out onto the dock!"

He couldn't know it at the time, but Matowick's momentary hesitation had saved the lives of many of his squirrels.

It would never be known which of Captain Riveroll's otters dealt the _Scorpiontail_ her fatal blow. It was certain that the otter in question couldn't have suspected what it was about to unleash. But somewhere along the port side of the searat ship back toward the stern, an otter's twisting awl drillbit chewed its way into a compartment containing a new weapon of the Searat King's. The steel bit hit a heavy nail in the hull, there was a spark, and the sulfur, cardon and saltpeter mixture within the compartment reacted in the only way it could.

The explosion blasted a gaping hole in the _Scorpiontail_'s side, rocking the immense vessel clear up out of the water. Dock planks peeled away like toothpicks, and even the mostly-submerged _Wavehauler_ swayed up and down. Corpses of otters and searats alike, caught unawares by this unexpected and impossible destruction, flew high into the night air like limp rag dolls. Flames that no army of searats could hope to extinguish quickly engulfed the stern of the dreadnought, even as she tilted prow-up and began to slip beneath the waves.

The rats who'd been belowdecks, in the rowing galley or checking for hull breaches, were mostly killed or stunned by the explosion, and very few were able to make their way topside in the time it took for the _Scorpiontail_ to sink. But the situation there was little better, and any rat who didn't want to find itself floundering in the icy winter sea would have to literally jump ship for what was left of the dock.

Squirrels and shrews and otters and slaves and the few surviving rats in the camp all stared openmouthed at the burning, shattered ship, their ears ringing from the concussion. There was scarcely a beast among them that realized what had actually happened. In the first moments after the cataclysm, the woodland warriors worried that this might be some totally unanticipated means the searats had of defending themselves, but it quickly became apparent that the _Scorpiontail_ herself had suffered the most from the explosion. The cause was still a total mystery, even to the creatures who'd caused it.

"What in the name of fur, tooth and bloody claw were those shrews and otters carrying with 'em?" Perricone muttered.

"Beats the brush off of me," Matowick said, "but if Lord Urthblood was gonna test out some new weapon of his on this mission, he shoulda told us!"

Saybrook, who'd stayed ashore with the squirrels after delivering his message, clapped the Gawtrybe commander on the shoulder. "Well, matey, I did say t'was all right t' burn that ship, an' it shore looks like she's burnin' just fine t' me!"

"Yeah, but at what cost?" Matowick bemoaned. "I think you just lost a lot of your mates out there, Saybrook. An' if that blast had come any later, a lot of my squirrels would have been out on this dock right alongside her when she blew."

"Well, mebbe we'll get ourselves a proper explanation after all th' dust settles," the otter captain said. "But right now, I see some business we gotta take care of first."

Well over a hundred searats - mostly fighters of Lieutenant Corprew's - had managed to clamber onto the dock from the sinking vessel. But many had lost their weapons in the explosion and the resulting stampede to abandon ship, and now milled helplessly atop the wobbling, patchwork pier.

"Don't suppose we'll get lucky and that dock will collapse all the way, taking that lot with it?" Perricone said hopefully.

"I'm not counting on it, Perri." Matowick studied the situation before him. The surviving rats were stranded on the pier; if they tried to come ashore, they would run into the Gawtrybe archers, and if they stayed where they were, the shrews and otters who'd survived the explosion would soon have them encircled. Those rats were not getting out of this either way.

"Lieutenant," Matowick said to Perricone with grim determination, "call down all the archers from the guard towers and bring them forward. We're ending this here and now."

00000000000

It was nearly midnight, and Ostrok was the last rat left alive of the more than four hundred who'd been at the mill and aboard the _Scorpiontail_ at the start of that day.

The mill manager was holed up in his stone overseer's tower, the door barricaded with whatever furniture the portly rat could drag in front of it. All the large glass panes of the third floor office had been shot out by arrows, javelins and slingstones, but when several of the Gawtrybe climbed the tower from the outside, they found that the doorway down into the structure had also been blocked.

Urthblood's forces opted to ignore the quarantined rat for the moment, since he was clearly going nowhere. The squirrels, otters and shrews went through the tavern, pulling out any food, drink and supplies they thought might be of use, then setting fire to the saloon. It burned wonderfully.

Matowick had planned to do the same thing to the mill factory, which was now the only structure other than Ostrok's tower still standing on these grounds, but the shrew and otter captains had stayed the squirrel's paw.

"We need a field hospital," Flusk the shrew commander said, "an' we need one bad. Lotsa shrews an' even more otters got wounded when that ship blew. That mill's perfect fer it - big, well-lit, lotsa floor space t' lay 'em out an' minister to 'em, an' it'll keep out th' worst o' th' winter night's chill." Flusk glanced around at all the burning buildings, some now smoldering piles of ash. "Not that it's all that cold 'round here t'night."

The slaves standing nearby were somewhat disappointed. The mill represented all they'd been enslaved for, and they would have relished the sight of it burning to the ground. But they also recognized the needs of their rescuers, and it was true that some of the slaves who'd chosen to fight were in need of medical attention too. The mill could always be burned down another time, after its usefulness was finished.

"Yeah, did we ever find out what made that ship explode like that?" Matowick asked. "We thought maybe it was some new weapon of Lord Urthblood's ... "

Flusk shook his head. "We thought th' same thing 'bout you Gawtrybe. I assure you, we had naught but blades 'n' bows with us, plus our otters' slings 'n' javelins ... an' their tools fer dismantlin' that ship below water. One of our fire arrows musta landed in their stocks o' cookin' oil, or sumpthin' ... "

"Oil doesn't go off like that," Matowick begged to differ. "It burns, sure, but that stuff ripped apart one of Tratton's biggest attack ships in one breath. It must've been something aboard that rat vessel - something we haven't seen before. Something that Lord Urthblood really needs to be told about." He looked to Saybrook. "Has Captain Riveroll turned up yet?"

Saybrook hung his head. "Nay. An' if he coulda, he woulda, you c'n be shore o' that. Looks like we're back down t' one otter captain here, an' I'm it."

"We're still pullin' our dead outta th' water," said Flusk. "Just about every otter who was anywhere near that ship lost its life, an' Cap'n Riveroll was leadin' his team. I reckon near half 'is squad's gone."

"And I lost about a score of my squirrels," Matowick added. "Tratton had some good fighters here. It's a good thing we were able to wipe them all out. They would have been a real threat to the lands."

"We've wiped out all but one." Flusk's smoky-eyed gaze went to the stone tower standing at the center of the ruined camp.

"Ah, yes." Matowick nodded. "What to do about that one ... "

One of the Gawtrybe medics ran up to Matowick. "Excuse me, sir, but we've barely got enough medicine and cloth to deal with all the wounded ... "

"What about the spirits and napkins and tablecloths we took from the tavern?"

"They're a big help, Captain, but we really need more."

One of the former slavemice stepped forward. "Excuse me, Captain Squirrel, sir?"

The Gawtrybe commander smiled at the trepidatious beast. "My name's Matowick, friend."

The mouse returned the smile. "Mine's Wexford, and I used to play mouseservant to Ostrok sometimes. I know he keeps some spirits and medicines in his overseer's tower. And some very fine linens too."

Matowick's eyebrows shot up in interest. "Does he really now?"

"Indeed he does, sir. That's his home as well as his office, and he liked the very best."

"A rat with taste, hm? Well, we'll just have to look into this. Come along, friends." Matowick started toward the stone tower, motioning for the others to follow.

00000000000

The squirrel captain's paw fell heavily on the solid oak door. "You in there! Ostrok! Open this door!"

"No!" came the muffled reply through the firmly-barred portal. "Ye'll kill me!"

"Listen up, chum-fer-brains! You got stuff in there we need, an' we're comin' in one way or another! Now, if you make us batter an' chop our way in, we'll slay you just as a matter of principle for puttin' us to all that extra trouble. But if you cooperate, I'll be more inclined to show you mercy. Make it easy on us, an' we'll make it easy on you."

"I don't berlieve ya!" Ostrok yelled from his side of the door. "I saw what y' did to my rats out there! Ye'll slay me no matter what!"

"Not true. I'm willing to make a deal. You come out on your own, and I'll guarantee that no squirrel, otter or shrew of Lord Urthblood's army will lay a paw on you or cause you harm. You will be safe from us."

"Ye're lyin'!"

"Okay, rat. You made your grave - now lie in it!" Matowick gave the waiting Captain Saybrook a nod, and the burly otter heaved to with a large battle axe. The oak shuddered and splintered under his forceful blows.

As Saybrook pulled back for his third chop, the rat's panicked voice could be heard from within. "Wait! Wait!"

Matowick held up a paw for Saybrook to hold. "Ready to bargain now, rat?"

"You promise you 'n' yer soldiers won't hurt me if'n I open this door an' come out there?"

"I swear on my honor as a woodlander, and an officer of Lord Urthblood's forces, no soldierbeast out here will lay paw, weapon, shaft or stone upon you. No creature under my command will harm you."

"Okay. Okay, then ... gimme a moment, an' I'll be right out ... " There came the sound of scraping and banging as Ostrok cleared his improvised barricades from against the inside of the door. Matowick and Saybrook stood and waited patiently for the rotund rat to finish his labors. After what seemed an interminable period, the door finally opened, and Ostrok hesitantly stepped out into the flame-flickering winter night.

Immediately a mouse and a hedgehog moved in behind him and pinned his paws behind his back. The corpulent searat snarled at Matowick, "Hey, you swore y' wouldn't hurt me!"

"Those beasts are not under my command," the Gawtrybe captain replied coolly. "I swore only that no soldier of Lord Urthblood's would cause you harm. We did not extend you our protection from the other creatures out here. And I believe they have some unsettled issues to take up with you ... "

Ostrok cursed and spat at Matowick, but his protests trailed away to a frozen silence of terror as he saw Kurdyla the Strangler advancing inexorably upon him, manacle chains raised between his paws. The cold smile on the otter slave's face was enough to freeze the heart of even the most ferocious sea vermin.


	7. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Dawn broke over an encampment that was a shattered, smoldering ghost of what it had been the day before. The mill factory and Ostrok's overseer's tower were the only structures still standing on the site, and the stone tower carried a distinctly ravaged appearance due to its smashed third floor windows. The tavern and several of the other larger buildings still burned, sending columns of black, gray and white smoke drifting lazily skyward; one of them, a warehouse where the cut lumber was stored to await shipment, looked as if it might burn for days. The thick smell of woodsmoke hung over every corner of the mill, and was almost choking at times.

Another smell, decidedly less pleasant, mingled with the woody odor. More than four hundred searats had died here, and while some of those had had the decency to go down with the _Scorpiontail_, the corpses of over half the searat forces littered the site and shoreline once the battle was ended. They couldn't simply be left to rot where they were, since the woodlanders were using the mill factory as a makeshift hospital and could not reasonably be expected to share the site with so many decaying rat bodies. So a couple of the guard towers around the camp perimeter were chopped down rather than simply set afire where they stood, and their timber was used to make a seaside funeral pyre to dispose of the corpses. When the wood from the watchtowers proved insufficient for the mammoth task, the remaining dock was further dismantled and its planks added to the pyre. It was a huge undertaking, but with so many willing paws of soldier and slave alike, the job was done by sunrise.

But there were other dead to consider as well - over a score of the Gawtrybe, and several of the slaves who'd fallen in their struggle against their former captors. As for the otters, while some of them washed ashore along with the rats from the _Scorpiontail_ and the dock, it quickly became obvious that others who'd been too close to that cataclysmic detonation would never be recovered. Captain Riveroll himself had yet to turn up, dead or alive. And of course Flusk's shrews had taken casualties as well, although they'd been spared the full brunt of the battle by the pirate ship's premature destruction.

There was no question of burning the goodbeast dead on the same pyre as the enemy, and there wasn't enough wood, time or musclepower to build a second one. Thus, a large common grave was dug in the sandy soil next to the overseer's tower; as the only structure that would remain standing after the warriors departed, it would serve as a suitable gravestone to commemorate the fallen fighters. Squirrel, otter, shrew and slave were laid shoulder to shoulder in the burial pit, and then the earth was solemnly and respectfully filled back in over the eternally sleeping warriors.

Saybrook was seen to visibly shudder in the predawn darkness. "Kinda reminds me of Salamandastron all over agin ... "

"This is what it was like, huh?" Matowick asked. He had not been at the battle for Salamandastron and had never witnessed any conflict which had claimed such a large number of Lord Urthblood's troops.

"Lord Urthfist and th' hares of th' Long Patrol claimed many more o' our lives than this seascum did," the otter captain replied. "But, yeah, it was kind o' like this. Never much cared fer th' notion o' common graves."

"Me neither," Matowick agreed. "But nothing to be done for it now. We'll have to be gone from here soon, and there was no way we could have borne them all back to Salamandastron. This was our only real choice."

Now, with the sun in the sky, the full measure could be taken of the ruin visited upon the searat installation. The destruction was nearly total, from the watchtowers to the various structures to the dock, now demolished to the point where no craft larger than a dinghy would ever find safe harbor there again. The tall masts of the _Scorpiontail_ stuck up above the waves at an ungainly angle, but the rest of the devastated attack vessel lay beneath the whitecaps in its watery grave, a submerged hazard to any other ship that might dare to venture near.

Browder, out from the coastal cave where he'd spent the night, strolled through the smoking and smoldering ruins, nose wrinkling and eyes watering. "I say," he declared to nobeast in particular, "when you chaps decide to throw a party, you go all out, wot?"

While a few of the more skilled healerbeasts labored over the injured in the mill, most of the others settled down onto the sand to nap away the morning in the winter sunshine. They'd battled and worked straight through the night, and seen many of their comrades laid low, and most now tottered on the verge of mental and physical collapse. Some were asleep almost before they hit their mats and blankets.

Their rest, however, was fated to be a short one.

Before the sun was very high in the sky, a warning cry rose up from the stone overseer's tower. The squirrel stationed on lookout duty there used a long glass that Urthblood had supplied the Gawtrybe before leaving Salamandastron. That paw-held telescope enabled the sharp-eyed sentry to extend his vision well out toward the ocean horizon.

"Ship!" he yelled down to his slumbering companions. "Ship approachin'!"

Matowick was on his footpaws in an instant, pawing at his bleary eyes. "One of Tratton's?"

"Just a minute, Captain sir." The lookout peered through the long glass again, his concentration total. Matowick, with Saybrook and Flusk standing anxiously at his side, gazed up at the tower in tensed anticipation, counting every rapid heartbeat. It seemed to take forever for the squirrel above to confirm their fears. "Aye, sails of red, black and green, Tratton's official colors. Looks like another dreadnought, sirs."

Saybrook looked to Matowick. "Think these rats here were able t' send out word they was bein' attacked an' needed help?"

The Gawtrybe captain shook his head. "Not unless they've started using birds for spies and messengers, like Lord Urthblood does. And that doesn't seem likely, given all the gulls they eat. No, I think we're just the victims of fateful bad timing. We knew ships come and go at this port all the time. This must be the relief for the dreadnought we destroyed last night."

"Or else Tratton was plannin' on keepin' both here," Saybrook supposed, "since this mill was gonna be expanded an' all ... "

"Yeah, that's possible too. In which case, the timing may have worked to our favor, just barely. I would have hated trying to attack this compound last night with two dreadnoughts' worth of searats defending it."

"None o' which answers the question, wot're we gonna do now?" Flusk asked.

Matowick pursed his lips. "Normally I wouldn't think twice about standing our ground against them. With that dock rendered unusable, they'd have to send their troops ashore in smaller landing boats, and they'd be easy pickings. But we lost a lot of our own in last night's battle, and those of us who're left are dead on our paws. Plus, we've got injured to worry about. And the slaves too. They fought valiantly, but I don't know how they'd fare against a fresh rat regiment in a daytime battle, without the element of surprise on their side."

Saybrook glanced at some of the smoking ruins which still sent plumes of various shades up into the morning sky. "Reckon the element o' surprise is somethin' none of us'll have this time."

"Nay," Matowick concurred. "On such a clear day, this smoke will be visible halfway to the end of the world. If they've not seen it already, they soon will ... and then they'll know something is very, very wrong here." He called up to the lookout, "When do you estimate they'll be here?"

"Definitely by day's end, sir. Maybe by noon."

"They'll pour on th' speed once they realize there's been trouble," said Saybrook.

"Probably," agreed Matowick. "And if their archers are as good as the ones we faced last night, that alone could be enough to tip the odds in their favor."

"Too bad we can't jus' snap our paws an' make that one explode too," Flusk lamented.

"We don't even know what caused that to happen, or whether this second ship is carrying anything similar," said Matowick. "We can't count on lightning striking twice. So, do we stand and fight, or do we run?"

"If we bug out, what happens to th' wounded?" Flusk inquired. "Some of 'em are too bad off to be moved, an' they'd slow us down too much anyways."

"Mebbe we could move 'em back up inta th' woods?" Saybrook suggested. "Far 'nuff so that they're hid 'mongst th' trees. We could leave a few medics t' look after 'em, then the rest of us could make a show of headin' south along th' shore t' draw these rats away from 'em. They're not very likely t' go stickin' their ugly snouts inta th' forest if they see us makin' our getaway."

"A diversion, hm? But, if they didn't fall for it and stayed here to try to rebuild the mill, those we leave behind wouldn't stand a chance against them. And it's still winter. You're talking about leaving our injured friends in the middle of the woods with no shelter, no food to forage ... no, I can't see that ... "

"What about this, then?" Flusk slapped his paw against the hard stone of Ostrok's tower. "We've seen it's got its own well in th' cellar, an' t'would be easy t' defend. Why, station a dozen o' yer best archers up top, an' I bet they could hold off a horde fer a season ... "

"Y' might have somethin' there, Flusk matey," Saybrook said. "There's room aplenty inside fer th' worst o' th' wounded, an' these walls wouldn't be easily breached. Them rats couldn't climb up outside like our squirrels could. Th' door's th' weak spot, but we could always shore it up nice 'n' tight ... "

"It galls me to think of leaving any of my beasts behind," Matowick muttered. "So much could go wrong ... "

"Look out there, Matty." Saybrook pointed seaward. "Things've already gone wrong. An' those rats ain't gonna give us all season t' fiddle-faddle over what we're gonna do. We gotta decide, an' we gotta be quick about it!"

00000000000

Captain Rindosh had made a rare climb up to the _Sharktail'_s crow's nest to appraise the situation for himself.

The low-ranking deckpaw rat currently on lookout duty shoved aside in the cramped platform to make room for his commander. Like Lutar, Rindosh was a lean and muscular fighting rat, who didn't think anything of scaling the rigging ropes when the smoke columns were sighted on the eastern horizon. Now, perched high above the _Sharktail_'s deck atop the dreadnought's tallest mast, with the salty sea breeze rippling his fur and flapping his turquoise tunic in the clear morning sunshine, Rindosh stared hard through his long glass at the distant smoke marring the misty shoreline.

"Wotcha think it is, Cap'n?" the lookout ventured tremulously.

"It's trouble, that's what it is," Rindosh muttered, more to himself than to his lowly companion. "That's right where th' mill is, and that ain't no cookfire ner chimney smoke. Only a whole buncha buildings burnin' at once would put up somethin' we'd see this far from shore. That, or a big ship afire."

The lookout rat gulped. "Ye wager it might've been a slave revolt?" The _Sharktail_, being in the same grand attack class as the _Scorpiontail_, carried no slaves in order to avoid just such an eventuality, and the crews of these fearsome warships had come to take a jaundiced view of pirate raiders and camps which still relied heavily on slaves. Ever since the still-unexplained disappearance of one of Tratton's prized underwater iron vessels the summer before, the Searat King did not trust his more valuable craft to anybeasts but his own rats.

"Either that, or the idiots started fighting each other." Rindosh lowered his spyglass, mulling over the possible scenarios in his mind. It was not unheard of for there to be strife between the naval searats and those assigned to landbound detail, with each faction holding itself to be above the other. But never had such frictions and rivalries resulted in a calamity on the scale of what appeared to have happened here.

Rindosh scolwed, folding the long glass and replacing it in his belt. "No use speculatin' - we'll just hafta go find our fer ourselves what went on." He swung himself out of the crow's nest and clambered back down the rigging to the deck below. The first boson Gumbs and the first mate Bodor awaited him expectantly.

"Gumbs," he snapped, "get three rats at every oar down in th' rowing galley, an' tell 'em to put their flearidden backs into it! We ain't waitin' fer th' wind t' get us there! I wanna be at the mill dock by midday!"

"Aye, sir!" Gumbs saluted and rushed belowdecks to carry out his orders.

Rindosh turned to his first mate. "Bodor, put all soldier rats on high alert. An' put all archers an' slingers along the for'ard railing, fully armed. I don't know what we're gonna find when we reach port, but I wanna be ready fer anything!"

00000000000

The Gawtrybe worked furiously, collecting as many of their spent arrows as they could recover until their quivers were nearly full again. The shrews and otters, in the meantime, supervised the moving of the wounded from the mill factory to the overseer's tower. Matowick had decided upon a plan that would combine the strategies they'd discussed earlier. It would require a lot of work, some good timing, and a modicum of luck, but all three woodlander captains agreed it was the best choice.

The approaching searat ship was now clearly visible to the naked eye, her ominous sails of red and black and green fully billowed before the wind. The goodbeasts on land did have one advantage in their favor, and that was the smoke from the rat funeral pyre and smoldering tavern, which would help obscure their activities from any watchers out at sea. Matowick fully intended to make themselves very visible to this new ship of searats, but at the time of his choosing.

When the last patient was evacuated from the big mill, that building was set ablaze as well, adding its own voluminous column of smoke to the morning sky. The watching slaves broke into applause and cheered the sight.

The otter slave Kurdyla, who'd returned to some semblance of calm sanity now that his murderous berserker's rampage was finished, came up to Matowick. "'scuse me, sir, but yore th' officer in charge 'ere, right?"

"Yes, that's right." Matowick regarded the otter standing before him. The chains binding his paws had been severed, but there hadn't been any time to file the manacles off his wrists or ankles, and the way he wore those crude ornaments now made him look like a proud savage. He had reason to be proud; by Matowick's estimate, Kurdyla had crushed the life out of at least a dozen searats during the night's fighting, and that was before he'd gotten his paws around Ostrok. The big otter was surely nobeast Matowick would have wanted for an enemy. "How can I help you?"

"It's about th' slaves, sir," Kurdyla said. "Some of 'em are willin' fighters, as you saw last night, but a lot of 'em ain't. They got no place in any battle yore plannin', an' there ain't room fer 'em in the tower along with all the wounded. We gotta figger out what we're gonna do with 'em."

It was then that Matowick noticed Browder had come over with Kurdyla, and stood self-consciously shuffling his footpaws in the sand behind the otter. "Well, I don't know what to tell you, Kurdyla. I'll be taking our main force down along the coast in plain view of the searats, to try to draw them away from here, and if that strategy works, we could see some more heavy fighting before we get back to Salamandastron. If there's not enough room for them in the tower, maybe they can retreat back up into the forest until the rats are gone. It's either that, or come along with us."

This didn't seem to satisfy the otter. "Not meanin' to be difficult, sir, but most o' these slaves have lost seasons outta their lives to this fur-forsaken place, an' suffered hardship an' loss nobeast oughtta know. They ain't keen to be stickin' 'round here, an' just wanna be away as soon as may be."

"Then they join my troops. We won't ask them to fight, and we'll protect them as much as we can. But if those searats attack in force, I can't promise they'll be safe."

"This hare had another idea."

"Oh?" Matowick raised an eyebrow toward Browder. "And that is?"

"Redwall," Browder said.

"Redwall?"

Browder nodded. "After wot most o' these poor souls have been through, they need someplace like that. Their homes have been destroyed, friends an' family slain ... All they've got left is each other, an' their freedom. They're flippin' refugees in their own lands. Really no place else fer 'em to go, wot?"

"We're a long way from Redwall," Matowick said doubtfully. "Do any of them know how to get there?"

"I do," said Browder.

"You? Browder, aren't you the same hare who told me you stayed as far away from that Abbey as you could when you came down from the north, out of fear of the Long Patrols?"

"Yah, well, I'll jump that bloomin' hurdle when I get to it, wot? But these goodbeasts need a guide to get 'em to Redwall, and I'm th' hare for the job!"

Matowick shook his head. "I might need you to scout for us on the way back to Salamandastron. I can't spare you, Browder."

"Sure y' can!" Browder argued. "You've got those bally birds o' yours, an' jolly fine scouts they are too! Why, Altidor 'n' Klystra can do much, much better in that department than I could. Those bird chaps can fly from th' mountains to th' sea an' back again in the time it'd take us to break for tea 'n' crumpets, an' see more from up in th' sky than I could standin' on the shoulders of a hundred bally squirrels! An' they're fightin' creatures, too, able t' lend beak 'n' talon to any blinkin' brouhaha you find yourselves in. I'm no good in a fight, as you're only too quick t' remind me every bloomin' chance you get ... "

"Lord Urthblood didn't want any of you involved in the fighting," Matowick reminded him, "so that's not a very good argument. You, Altidor and Klystra are the only long-range scouts I have on this mission, and I don't want to lose any of you. We'll be hitting the sandy coastal plain on the way home, and us squirrels can't move on that ground the way you can."

"An' then what, wot? Either those rats are gonna attack you, or they're not. If they don't, you won't need me t'all, an' if they do, you won't need me to see 'em comin'. I'd be a fifth paw, only gettin' in the way ... "

Matowick was about to put the final quash on Browder's argument when Kurdyla entered the conversation once more. "Please, sir. My friends deserve this after all they've been through, and if this hare can take them to a better place, you've got to let 'im."

There was a pleading tone in the otter's voice, but also something in his eye that might have been dangerous. Matowick didn't think Kurdyla would grow violent if his request was denied, but after what he'd seen the otter do last night, he did not want to risk reawakening the bloodlust that he knew dwelt within this beast.

The Gawtrybe captain sighed. "If you're gonna be leaving, you'd best be off before that ship gets any closer. Captain Flusk will see to doling out some provisions for you from the supplies we took from the tavern. How many of the slaves will be going to Redwall?"

"'bout half, I reckon," Kurdyla answered. "Th' rest'll go with you down th' shoreline, in case you get another crack at those searats."

"And I gather you'll be with us too?" Matowick said to the otter.

Kurdyla actually seemed surprised by the squirrel's assumption. "Who, me? Naw, I'm goin' to Redwall with Browder. I'm no fighter."

"No .. no fighter?" Matowick sputtered. "What do you call what you did last night?"

"Oh, that?" Kurdyla dismissed it with the wave of his paw, his dangling bit of manacle chain clinking as he did so. "That weren't fightin'. Not real, solider-like fightin'. I was just angry."

Matowick stared after Kurdyla as he departed with Browder to make ready for their journey. "Remind me never to get you angry," the squirrel muttered.

00000000000

On the plateau of Salamandastron, King Grullon squawked and flapped and danced around in happy circles - a display of behavior most inappropriate for a bird of royalty.

"Creeaagh! Stripedog ratkiller! Crahawhaw! Rathouses burn, ratships sink, ratfighters die, die, die! Great day, great day!"

Urthblood stood on the mountaintop a short distance away, impassive as usual, watching the gull king's joyous whirling. The midmorning sun shone brightly down upon bare and deserted coastlands, and an ocean vista that was empty of searat sails. After the events of the previous night, the Badger Lord doubted they would remain that way for long.

"So, you are satisfied with this demonstration I arranged?"

"My gulls fly to me this morning, tell Grullon all they see. Fire, fire, and many many many dead rats! Thousand rats, all dead now, craawk!"

"I suspect the actual number was closer to five hundred," Urthblood casually corrected, "unless there was more than one dreadnought docked there, which my intelligence did not indicate. But it is certainly a good start, as I am sure you'll agree. Just imagine what we will be able to achieve when your forces are united with mine, Your Majesty. I will give you your thousand dead searats, and a thousand more if that is your desire. What say you?"

Grullon momentarily paused in his dance of triumph and looked at the badger. "Yah! You want hundred gulls, I give you hundred gulls. But Grullon think you kill searats just fine without any gulls at all."

"That mill was just one site of Tratton's, and we caught them totally by surprise. He has other installations up and down the coast from the Northlands to Southsward, and he controls islands that may be beyond our reach. His main seat of power is on Terramort, and he has many, many ships. And I do not think he will be taken unawares again so easily ... unless we are able to strike at him in some new way that he will not expect. That is why we need each other, Majesty."

Grullon nodded absently, still too elated by the news of this blow against his hated searat foes to fully absorb everything Urthblood was saying. "Yah, yah, yah. Grullon work with Lord Stripedog, together we kill many searats."

"Make no mistake, Your Majesty, if this turns into all out war - as it very well may - many of your gulls could die."

The seagull king digested this for half a moment, then shrugged his wings. "Many gulls die already, end up in searat bellies. Better to die fighting than die as dinner."

"A noble warrior's sentiment," Urthblood said in his most complimentary and placating tones. "Now, if you could possibly arrange to have your hundred gulls report to me by day's end, I would like to commence their training as soon as I may."


	8. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Matowick made sure his forces were arrayed along the shore in plain sight of the searats. Their plan wouldn't work unless they could draw this second dreadnought away from the ruined camp and the injured woodlanders hiding there. It seemed unlikely that a ship full of fighting vermin would be content to let the creatures who'd inflicted so much damage upon their brethren escape down the coast in favor of investigating the scene of the battle. And for his part, the Gawtrybe captain actually half-hoped he could provoke this second ship into a shorebound landing and attack - with fourscore squirrel archers at his command, as well as dozens more shrews and otters, Matowick felt confident he could inflict massive losses on their searat foes.

The _Sharktail_ had pulled up to the end of the ruined dock. It must have been clear from the wrecked state of the pier and the skewed masts of the _Scorpiontail_ sticking up out of the water that there would be no safe harbor here. From the deck of the warship the rats could clearly see the Gawtrybe neatly formed into a marching column along the shore south of the burning camp. Between the squirrels and the rat ship floated the convoy of nearly four dozen shrew logboats, bobbing in the gentle swells just beyond the breakers, loaded with shrews and otters. It was a brash display, even if they were just beyond arrow range. Practically a challenge - which was just as Matowick wanted it.

He glanced over his shoulder, and his lieutenant Perricone guessed what he was thinking. "You reckon Browder and the slaves are safely away by now?" she asked.

"I suppose so, Perri. They've had enough of a head start, and they're headed in an oblique direction that wouldn't be easily tracked. If those rats are gonna come after anybeast, it'll be us - were a big, fat, tempting target, out in plain sight on the open coast. It's the ones we left behind in the camp I'm worried about. If the searat captain decides to land there in force ... "

"Nothing we can do about it now, sir," Perricone advised. "They knew the risks when they agreed to stay. And the wounded weren't going anywhere, whether they wanted to or not." She glanced out toward the _Sharktail_, which was way too close for her liking. "And now, Captain, I really do think we should be going ... "

"Right you are, Perri. Okay!" he shouted. "Banner up, and forward ... MARCH!"

The standard bearer lifted their battle flag high - a blood-red badger on a black background - and the column of Gawtrybe started south at a quick march, footpaws kicking up sand behind them. Out from shore, shrews and otters dug into the water with their paddles, setting their nautical caravan on a course to parallel their landbound comrades. The fighting slaves who'd decided to accompany the warriors marched among the squirrels, scavenged searat weapons clutched tightly in paw. If there was to be further fighting, they would not shy away from it.

They wound their way past the cave where Browder and Saybrook's squad had waited before the assault, and pushed on until the coast began to curve east into a small bay. Here the woodland warriors paused, looking back to see what the searats would do.

Some of sharper-eyed squirrels could, at this distance, just make out the landing craft that were putting ashore. "Captain, they're going into the camp after all!"

"Just a couple of small boatloads, Perri," Matowick replied, squinting to see for himself. "That's no occupation force. Scouts, more like. My guess is they're looking for survivors who can tell them what happened."

"Fat lotta good that'll do 'em!" the squirrel Arway snorted.

"Yeah," added Sergeant Grapentine, "if they wanna know what happened there, they'll hafta ask us ... and I'll be only too happy to let my arrows do the replying!" He pulled back on his empty bowstring, itching to use it.

"What if they do reoccupy the site?" Perricone worried.

"And ignore us?" Matowick shook his head. "They've seen us, no doubt of that, and they dare not let us escape. Tratton would have their heads."

"But, if they discover the ones hiding there, they could hold them as hostages ... "

"That's one risk of this plan," Matowick admitted, and glanced skyward. The lone winged form could be seen against the blue field, circling high above the shattered rat camp. "Altidor and Klystra are keeping a sharp eye on things from up there. If something goes very wrong, they'll let us know. In the meantime, we sit tight. Those rats aren't coming after us now, and I want to keep them where I can see them. If they give our wounded trouble, maybe we can lend a paw ... "

"I thought we'd decided against that," said Perricone. "If they find out we have friends there we'd fight to save, they could lure us into a trap ... "

"On the other paw, if we attack in force before they can get the majority of their soldiers ashore, we might be able to wipe them out." Matowick gazed toward the site. "Maybe this was a mistake ... maybe we should have held our ground, made our stand where we were ... "

"And risk being overwhelmed? We would've been tied down to one spot, sir, obligated to defend our wounded at all costs. This was the best chance for all of us. You made the right call, Captain."

"That remains to be seen, Perri," Matowick said dubiously, staring up the shore toward the searat activity. "That remains to be seen."

And so they waited and watched, fourscore squirrels and assorted slaves standing on the beach and a small fleet of logboats bobbing in the surf, poised between flight and attack.

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First Mate Bodor led the party ashore.

As awesome as the destruction had seemed from aboard the _Sharktail_, up close it was positively staggering. The landing boats skirted the dismembered pier, most of its planks now missing, and an audible gasp arose from the oarsrats as they glanced down and saw the submerged corpse of the _Wavehauler_ lurking beneath them like a giant ghost in the sunlit waters.

Once ashore, things got even worse as they realized the large burning mass at the head of the shattered dock was a tangled mess of over a hundred dead searats, perhaps twice that number, ablaze in their final ignominious resting place. Some of the pirate scouts jumped back into the landing boats and wailed to return to the _Sharktail_ at once, but Bodor and a few of the more hardened fighters lashed and kicked at them to press on. No rat would be returning to the dreadnought until they'd thoroughly scouted every corner of the camp for survivors, clues or enemy.

While the force fanned out to scour the burning and smoldering ruins, Bodor and a pair of burly soldier rats took up station at the center of the site by the foot of Ostrok's tower. This spot gave the first mate a clear view in all directions, and what he saw was disheartening in the extreme. Every other building in the camp had been torched; the mill factory was collapsing in sections even as he watched. All the other structures were down already, and some were little more than smoking piles of gray ash and charred timbers. The destruction was total.

And they had just missed it.

Bodor turned and looked up at the overseer's tower rearing up at their backs. "Looks like this 'ere's the only thing they couldn't set ablaze, an' they still did a job on it ... " His gaze took in the shattered picture windows of the third floor office, and the wisps of smoke drifting out through the jagged frames. "Sumpthin's burnin' up there, though. Mebbe furniture, or floorboards an' stairs. Still, if there's anyplace in this whole mess where some o' our mateys might've weathered th' storm, this'd be it."

Bodor and his troops pounded on the tower door, and were surprised to hear and feel a total solidity to the wood, with no give and no echo whatsoever.

"That ain't jus' barricaded, sir," one soldier remarked, "it's shored up solid. Th' beasts inside musta piled rocks or sand up 'gainst th' other side like a berm or dam ... "

"Which means they were tryin' t' keep somebeast out." Bodor drew his sword and rapped its flat against the door. "Ahoy in there!" he shouted, face to the wood. "This's First Mate Bodor of th' _Sharktail_! Any rat alive in there? We're 'ere t' rescue ya, so open up in th' name o' King Tratton!"

All within remained deathly silent.

"Should we try 'n' chop our way in, sir?"

Bodor nodded. "Yeah, see if y' can ... "

The two soldier rats, working with battle axe and heavy pike, set to work on the door. The wood splintered and shuddered under their blows, and when at last they forced open a crack a paw's width across, sand came spilling out all over their footclaws.

The senior rat looked to Bodor in dismay. "Like I figgered, sir. We'd hafta dig our way through that ... could take all day."

"Yeah, so I sees." Bodor stepped away from the wall and cupped his paws to his mouth. "Hello, up there in th' tower! Anybeast there? It's first mate o' th' _Sharktail_! If y' can hear me, give a shout!"

No reply came.

"You want we should climb up there an' take a look?"

Bodor gazed at the broken windows and the smoke issuing forth through them. "Naw. Pretty clear what musta happened 'ere. Some o' these rats, mebbe Manager Ostrok hisself, tried t' seal themselves up in this tower, knowin' the enemy couldn't burn it too easy. But we saw there's squirrels in th' enemy force, an' they musta climbed up th' outside an' smashed their way in from above an' killed everyrat inside. Wouldn't be burnin' up there if t'was anybeast still alive in this tower."

The two fighters nodded in agreement. It sounded perfectly logical to them.

The scouts began to report back from every part of the devastated mill site. No matter where or how hard they looked, there was no trace to be found of anybeast, living or dead. It seemed every slain rat must have been fed to the funeral pyre by the dock, and a large mound of freshly-turned sand near the tower suggested where the enemy had laid their own dead to rest; Bodor didn't want to take the time to find out for sure. This camp had been wiped clean of all life.

"Well, that's what Cap'n Rindosh wanted t' know," Bodor sighed. "Pity there's no survivors or prisoners, but we can't take back what ain't 'ere. Back to th' boats, me buckoes - we're returnin' to th' _Sharktail_!"

They needed no second bidding. Eager to be away from this place of death, the rat scouts piled into the landing boats and almost didn't wait for Bodor to climb aboard himself before shoving off and rowing back to their home dreadnought with purpose.

00000000000

The Gawtrybe archers, crouched down out of sight in the top of the tower, had heard almost everything Bodor said. Their biggest challenge had been stifling their coughs from the smoky fire they'd set in Ostrok's office to make the building look burned-out and abandoned. Even with the dampened kerchiefs tied over their noses, and the paneless windows allowing the smoke to escape almost as soon as it was created, there was enough in the room to tickle the nose, irritate the throat and make the eyes water.

Only when they heard the distant splashing of the rats' oars in the water did one of the squirrels risk a quick peek up over the windowsill to verify that the landing party was indeed heading back to the main ship. The Gawtrybe here still wore the camouflage ash in their fur, unlike their comrades down the coast who'd washed the gray soot out of their red fur to make themselves more visible to their would-be pursuers.

The lookout quickly ducked his head back down. "Yup," he whispered, "they're all gone. Should we let this fire die out now?"

Sergeant Custis shook his head, feeding another piece of wood to the bonfire in the middle of the floor. They'd hastily assembled a crude stone hearth of sorts so that the flames from their smoky decoy fire wouldn't accidentally spread to the floorboards beneath it. The last thing they needed was to burn down the wooden interior structure of the tower in which they were all barricaded.

"We'll wait a little longer," Custis replied, keeping his own voice low in case the rats had left a crew member or two ashore as spies. "Preferably, until after that big ship out there hoves out of view. It'd look pretty suspicious if the smoke stops coming out of these windows just as soon as the landing party leaves shore. Keep an eye on things here, fellas - I'm going down to take a look at the damage there for myself."

The first and second stories of Ostrok's tower were stone-walled and completely windowless; the mill manager had coveted his privacy, a luxury seldom afforded to searats, and could go up to his top floor whenever he wanted a view, and so had left the first two levels without windows. This design peculiarity greatly assisted the woodlanders in their charade. The investigating rats could neither peer in nor smash through windows that weren't there, and the healers could light lamps for themselves and their patients without fear of revealing their presence to the enemy.

Custis silently crept down through the second story to the first, passing the injured laid out on their mats and blankets, and the medics tending them in the subdued light of just a few lamps. Even down here the smoke odor was strong, and most of the patients kept knotted bits of cloth between their jaws to help muffle their occasional coughs. Such a precaution was probably no longer necessary, but Custis was taking no chances. If they tipped their paw to the rats, those seavermin could besiege them with a force of warriors ten deep on every side, and they'd be unlikely to survive such an onslaught.

Down on the ground level, Custis conferred with the Gawtrybe defenders there. "How're we doin', mates?"

"They gave us a bit of a start when they began chopping at the door," a squirrel named Vanacour reported, "but they never even got through the sand we had piled up. They took one look at it and didn't want anything to do with it, just like Captain Matowick predicted."

Custis nodded in the lamplight. "Kinda scary, how well our captain knows his vermin, but he's fought 'em enough to know his stuff, I suppose. His ruse here worked like a charm. I thought we might have a fight on our paws, but as long as they don't come back, we're in the clear. In a few more days, when the wounded can be safely moved, we'll head inland and get them as far from searat territory as we can."

The sergeant stepped up to the slope of sand piled against the inside of the door and gave it a reassuring pat. Reassuring to himself, at any rate. It had taken a lot of work, hauling in all the sand and setting up a crude retaining wall from scavenged lumber bits so that it would look to the rats as if there was a lot more sand in here than there really was. Daylight filtered through some of the upper cracks that the searats had caused, but most of the door was still hidden behind the sand. Still, this had been a near thing.

"Never thought we'd get this done, not even with every available pair of paws lending themselves to the task. Nothing like a job that needs doing to get a task done! And we did it without any moles, either!"

"Yeah," Vanacour added with a grin, "who needs moles when you've got good ol' squirrel power!"

00000000000

"Here they come!"

Matowick stood his ground for the moment, waiting to make sure Perricone was right before setting his troops in motion again. They'd all seen the two landing craft returning to the searat dreadnought, and those smaller boats had been hoisted aboard once more. Now, the giant attack vessel did indeed seem to be turning about to point its prow southward, its awe-inspiring sails of red, black and green fully deployed for maximum speed. Still, she could have been turning back to the open sea. The Gawtrybe captain wanted to be certain that they'd succeeded in luring the rats away from their hidden comrades.

Perricone looked to him, a question in her eyes. "What're we waiting for, sir?"

"They hafta come after us," he muttered. "This plan won't work unless they do."

"But, they're pulling up anchor and turning away from the mill site. What does it matter whether they follow us or sail off someplace else, as long as it gets them away from Sergeant Custis and his team?"

"For one thing," Matowick replied, "they could go running off to tell Tratton what's happened here. Sure, that king of seascum will find out eventually, but why not make him wait awhile? But more than that, Perri, if we let that ship out of our sight, we won't know where it is ... which means it COULD return to the mill, if they have second thoughts about what they saw or should have done there. No, I want to keep that vessel where I can see it, just for my own peace of mind. All the way back to Salamandastron, if I can get them to stick with us that far."

The female lieutenant glanced seaward. "Well, maybe you'd better share your strategy with our otter and shrew friends, 'cos it looks like they're about to take off without us!"

Out beyond the low breakers, the waterbeasts had their paddles dipped in anticipation and were looking anxiously to shore for a signal from the squirrel commander. They were clearly eager to get underway.

"Just ... wait ... a little ... while ... longer ... ah!" Matowick's gaze was caught by a movement above the mountains to the east. "Here comes something that might help us!"

Altidor the eagle swooped down from the midday sky and landed on the sandy ground a short distance away. Matowick rushed over to the bird to hear Altidor's report.

"No rats were left behind at the camp," the eagle told Matowick. "It appears the wounded and their defenders were not discovered."

Matowick breathed a sigh of relief. "So far, so good. Altidor, my friend, I'd like you to fly cover for us from now on, so that we can know every move that searat ship makes. It looks like she's coming after us, but I want to make sure she does just that. Don't worry about whether you're seen; I don't think there's much they can do with that information even if they do figure out you're working with us."

Altidor gave a nod. "Good, because they surely saw me fly down to you just now. But I deemed you would want my news."

"That I did. Now, I think we'd all better be going now, or else we're going to end up having our battle with those searats on the beach right here!"

There could be no mistaking it now: the pirate dreadnought was under full sail, and the long oars from the rowing galley sliced the water as well, adding to the craft's speed. Clearly they meant business.

Altidor took to the wing, flapping skyward to ride the thermals and ply the breezes in his role as aerial lookout. Matowick ran to the head of his column, whirling his arm in a windmill motion and uttering a cry to march that could be heard by beasts on land and sea alike. The shrews and otters bent to their paddles with vigor, launching the logboat flotilla southward again. Matowick barely slackened his own pace once he was in front of his squirrels, and the Gawtrybe had to go into a steady half-jog to keep up with their leader. Behind the fleeing woodlanders, much farther off shore than the logboats, the searat dreadnought _Sharktail_ made an all-out effort to overtake them.

The chase was on.


	9. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Even though Browder was their guide and escort, Kurdyla quickly became the unspoken leader of the slave procession wending its way from the coast to Redwall Abbey.

Their first full day of freedom was nearing its end. The sun had set, and winter's bleak twilight lay over the land. Browder had led his charges - just over a score in number - inland and slightly south, backtracking along the trail that the Gawtrybe and Saybrook's otters had made on their way to attack the searat lumber mill. Now that the refugees were getting farther from the coast, scattered patches of snow could be seen, many of which clearly bore the confused melee of pawprints from the northbound warriors. Owing to the lateness of the season, the lands were not entirely snowbound, and the weather was mercifully less chilly than it could have been. Conditions were actually quite fine for a journey such as theirs.

Browder and Kurdyla marched at the forefront of the group, which was sticking to no particular formation. The hare glanced to the silver evening sky, and was reassured by the sight of Klystra circling high overhead. As long as the falcon watched out for them from up there, they could be secure in the knowledge that no gang of vengeance-seeking searats was creeping up behind them.

"How long will it take t' get to Redwall?" Kurdyla asked.

"From here? Not sure, chappie. At a full hare's run, I could probably get there in two or three days. Maybe four - this hard winter ground can be rough on th' footpaws, don'tcha know. But, with this bally crew?" Browder glanced over his shoulder at the motley assortment of mice, hedgehogs, squirrels and otters ... and, shuffling along behind all the others, a solitary rat. "Not many fast runners in this cheery bunch, wot? Taking this at a leisurely stroll like we are now, probably be the end of the season b'fore we're knockin' on Redwall's gates."

"That long, huh? Well, most o' these beasts've known only slavery fer th' past few seasons, so a few extra days' slog through these lands won't be anything they can't handle. In fact, they're prob'ly so happy just to be able t' stretch their legs an' wander where they want without nobeast tellin' 'em they can't, they'd be content t' go 'round in circles, long as they're free. I know that's shore how I feel."

"Um, yes, well, no walkin' in circles for us, if I can jolly well help it." Browder shot the lagging rat another glance, and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial stage whisper. "I say, do you really think we can trust that one back there? I mean, he was one of 'em, an' all that."

"Who, Syrek? He was one of 'em, long ago. But when 'is own kind slapped 'im in chains fer slippin' up, he became one o' us. An' if you doubt 'is place here, I can give you me affidavy that Syrek t'were standin' right along wi' th' rest of us last night, cuttin' down th' rats who'd wronged him. That makes him okay in my book."

"Oh. But if he's such a smashing rat slayer, wot's 'ee doin' here with us, instead o' all th' bally fighters an' soldier chappies back on th' beach?"

"He was a mill worker, not one o' Tratton's soldiers," Kurdyla explained. "When he made a mistake one day that set back their fur-forsaken production schedule, they offered him a choice 'tween death an' slavery. Syrek chose slavery, tho' by th' look o' the whip scars on 'is back, there musta been times he sorely wondered if he made th' right choice. But where there's life there's hope, an' if he'd chosen death back when, he'd not've been around last night t' get his revenge. But, no, he ain't no profesh'nal fightin' beast, anymore'n I am. 'Sides which, them squirrels who rescued us didn't trust 'im with a weapon, even after I vouched fer 'im. So, here he is."

"Um, yes indeed he is. An' since you're such a jolly big fan o' his, you can sleep beside him tonight when we make camp. I'll stick by these nice plain woodlander chaps m'self. Except maybe those 'hogs - that's one kind o' stickin' this hare can do without." Browder glanced around them. "S'pose we'd better start lookin' for a nice cozy spot to settle down, 'fore it gets too much darker, wot? Preferably someplace without snow ... "

They were just north of the foothills at the upper end of the mountain range that separated the coastlands and Salamandastron from the Western Plains. The seaside forest where the rats had been logging was far behind them now, and all around was flat plain and rolling hills, with only the occasional solitary stand of trees or rocky outcrop, and the taller mountains visible to the south through the misty evening gloaming. Some of the territory they'd covered that afternoon was marshy swampland in the warmer seasons, infested with hostile toads and other unpleasant creatures, but now all the reptiles and amphibians were in hibernation and the normally soggy ground was firm and easily passable. It was one slight advantage to travelling during the winter, and the escaped slaves were glad for it.

"Are y' shore we've come far 'nuff t' be safe?" Kurdyla asked with a trace of worry.

"Should be." Browder jerked a paw skyward. "Our eye in th' blinkin' sky would let us know otherwise. Still, s'pose we'll hafta stand watches durin' th' night, wot? Won't be me, tho' - I'm th' bally guide for this trek, an' gotta get my full measure of shuteye t' stay fresh 'n' sharp, don'tcha know."

Kurdyla rolled his eyes. "Oh, o' course, o' course."

After some scouting about, Browder found a dry, boulder-sheltered gully that would comfortably accommodate their entire party. As the others settled down, the hare announced, "Right, I'll just nip out for some o' that dried bramble and kindling we passed a little ways back, an' we'll have ourselves a cozy little campfire goin' in no time t'all."

Kurdyla stopped him with a firm paw on the shoulder. "No fire. Nothin' that'll draw attention t' ourselves ... "

"But ... but ... we're down in a bloomin' pit here!" Browder protested. "Nobeast'll be able t' see the flames! An' by th' time we get it started, th' sky'll be too dark to show smoke!"

"No fire," the strong otter repeated in a tone that said he was not to be argued with. "The terrain will shelter us from th' worst o' any winds, an' we got plenty o' provisions we can enjoy cold."

"Enjoy's hardly the word I'd use," Browder grumbled.

"Mebbe tomorrow, if we've put enuff good distance 'tween ourselves an' here, we can have a fire," Kurdyla continued. "But we'll not risk it t'night, this close to th' coastlands."

"Wotever you say, chap." Browder wiggled out from under the otter's paw and stomped over to the far side of the gully, where he laid out his bedroll, muttering to himself all the while. "First, we couldn't light a fire 'cos that bossy bushtail Matowick said we were too flippin' close to those sodden searats, then I hafta spend last night sleepin' in a cave, an' now some too-big-fer-his-britches ruddertail's tellin' me I gotta go three nights in a row with no fire 'cos he's afraid of searats comin' after us who aren't bloomin' well even there! Colossal cheek, I say! Looks like somebeast has gone an' forgotten which hare's in charge o' this bally stroll, wot?"

00000000000

The _Sharktail_ overtook Urthblood's troops very quickly. And then ... nothing.

Clearly, the pirate dreadnought itself would have to remain well offshore to avoid running aground in the shallows or on a sandbar. But there was no saying that she couldn't venture within archery range of the logboats, and perhaps even the creatures up on the beach. Of course, shooting from one rising and falling craft toward others would be most imprecise, but a rank of archer rats lined up along the _Sharktail_'s port railing should have been able to unleash a constant volley of arrows that would find some targets by sheer luck if not through the skill of the shooters.

The biggest threat, however, was that the searats would send masses of fighters ashore in landing boats to engage the woodlanders directly. This was a contingency for which the Gawtrybe and their waterbound companions were prepared; indeed, most of the woodland warriors relished the prospect of inflicting further losses on their searat foes.

But none of these things happened. As the afternoon wore on toward evening, the hazy sun dropping down to meet the sea, the searat ship seemed content to merely shadow the southbound attack force from afar. She followed a course parallel to the shore, oars shipped and sails trimmed so that she would not shoot past their quarry. Other than that, the searats satisfied themselves to wait and watch.

If it was meant to be a form of psychological warfare, it was not without its effectiveness. As evening approached, Lieutenant Perricone glanced out at the ship and muttered, "What in Hellsgates are they waiting for?"

"Full night, would be my guess," Matowick said. "They know our archers and slingers won't be as effective in the dark. They'll be able to land a large force and make us resort to paw-to-paw combat, which will give them a greater advantage, even with our otters."

"Bow or blade, day or night, bring 'em on!" Sergeant Grapentine spat. "I'm always up for slaying searats, anytime, any way!"

"You may get your chance soon enough, Sergeant." Matowick glanced up at the higher dunes on their left. "We've been pushing ourselves hard all afternoon, and that's been especially strenuous on this shifting sand underpaw. I think some of us must be close to collapse. We'll have to stop soon, whether we want to or not, so it may as well be for the night. And that higher ground looks like our best bet."

"What about the shrews and otters?" Perricone asked. "If they come ashore for the night too, they'll have to drag their logboats pretty far. Can't leave 'em near the tideline, or else those searats might sneak up and steal them, and then we'd all be stuck trudging our way back to Salamandastron."

"I'll ask Saybrook and Flusk what they want to do," said Matowick. "They may decide to sleep in shifts in their boats right out on the water - shrews do that all the time on the lakes and rivers up north. The main thing is that we got those searats to follow us. At least now we can be reasonably confident that the wounded we left behind at the tower will be safe. Browder and his group of slaves, too. As long as I can keep that ship in my sight, I'll rest easy on that score."

"Guess we won't be lighting any fires tonight, huh?" Grapentine wondered.

"Depends." A sly grin came to Matowick's face. "Just 'cos we light fires, doesn't mean we have to sleep around them. Imagine how surprised those rats would be if they come charging toward where they think we are, and we're standing aside in the shadows waiting for 'em!"

"You really think they'll attack us tonight, Captain?"

"I'd say be ready for it, Perri. I can't imagine they'll just sit out there and watch us run all the way back to Salamandastron. In fact, they'll probably engage us long before we get near the mountain, so we won't be able to call on reinforcements. These coastal plains are a nobeast's land, and they won't wait for us to get back to familiar territory. One way or another, you can be sure they'll try to stop us before then. Tonight, or tomorrow, but soon."

"I was thinking they'd sail south of us and put ashore there," Grapentine speculated. "Set up a skirmish line right across our path of retreat, maybe set up some ambushes. That's what I'd do if I didn't want us reaching Salamandastron. Get between us and the mountain, sort of a defensive barrier ... "

"They might still try something like that," Matowick said, bringing the Gawtrybe column to a halt with an upraised paw and a sideways switch of his tail. "But remember, no matter what strategy they choose, we've got forces on land and water, and they'll have to contend with both. No matter where they land, our shrews and otters will be able to get behind them, and we can catch them in a pincer maneuver. Maybe this has occurred to them too, and that's why they haven't tried to harass us yet. But they're bound to try something sooner or later, and we've got to be ready for it, whatever it is. Now, get every squirrel and slave up into those dunes, and secure some lookout positions. I'll be right up."

"Aye, Captain!"

While Perricone and Grapentine took charge of the Gawtrybe, Matowick paced down to the waterline to confer with Captains Saybrook and Flusk.

The next move would be up to the searats.

00000000000

Matowick was right; the searats had considered everything the squirrels had discussed, and more. Captain Rindosh was a seasoned campaigner and a competent tactician, and he was not about to be goaded into a false move that would cost the lives of many of his fighters. He was well aware that the force he now chased had just wiped out King Tratton's largest mainland installation, sunk a dreadnought like his own _Sharktail_ and slain hundreds of searats, many of whom were formidable warriors. Rindosh had never before faced an enemy of this caliber, and he wanted to choose his moment with great care.

Toward the end of that afternoon, after they'd drawn abreast of the squirrel column and the flotilla of shrews and otters, Rindosh stood for a long time on the command deck with the lowering sun at his back, studying his adversary through his long glass.

"I don't unnerstand," First Mate Bodor complained, but mildly; one did not openly criticize one's superior too harshly in Tratton's navy if one wished to remain alive. "They killed all our mates at th' mill. Why don't we just attack now, an' chop 'em to pieces?"

"Because they are probably counting on us to do exactly that," Rindosh explained slowly and precisely. "Those are Urthblood's troops. His squirrels are reputed t' be th' best archerbeasts who've ever lived, an' I count at least threescore of 'em, each with longbow an' full quiver. A force like that could prob'ly kill ev'ry rat on the _Sharktail_, even if there was any way we could all rush 'em at once - which there ain't."

Bodor shrugged, incapable of conceiving what his captain was suggesting. "We got archers of our own ... "

"Not that many, an' not in that class. But it ain't just th' squirrels we gotta worry 'bout." Rindosh waved his long glass shoreward. "There's also a whole fleet o' waterbeasts out there too."

"Them dinky liddle things?" Bodor said, clearly disdainful of the shrew logboats. "Why, they look like one good wave'd tip 'em over. No match fer our landin' boats, much less th' _Sharktail_ 'erself."

Rindosh frowned. "Ye ain't seein' th' fish fer th' school, Bodor. Those logboats are made fer one thing: transport. They ain't warships, an' they don't hafta be, 'cos there's warriors aboard 'em, an' that's what counts. Sure, they're tiny ... which means they're very maneuverable, an' could prob'ly run circles 'round our landin' boats if we tried t' go chasin' after 'em. But, if we don't go after 'em - if we just make a landing to attack th' squirrels an' ignore the logboats - then those dinky liddle things, as you call 'em, will close behind us, an' we'll find ourselves with one deadly foe in front of us an' another at our backs. We could send two hundred rats ashore, an' we'd be lucky fer one of 'em to make it back alive!"

"They can't be that good," Bodor said in disbelief. "Can they?"

"You went ashore at the mill," Rindosh reminded him. "You saw it fer yerself, with yer own eyes - ev'ry building burned, ev'ry rat dead. An' th' dock destroyed, an' the _Wavehauler_ an' _Scorpiontail_ sunk ... now ask yerself that question again ... "

Bodor stared shoreward, mouth agape. All he saw were a line of squirrels with a few slaves scattered amongst them, and a convoy of laughably small canoes bearing shrews and otters. Just ... woodlanders. In his mind he could not reconcile the sheer wanton destruction he'd beheld at the mill site as having been caused by such innocuous-seeming creatures. It was this lack of imagination that had kept Bodor from obtaining a captaincy of his own. But the first mate could hardly be blamed; after all, his only experience with such beasts was in raiding their trading ships and coastal settlements, and all those he'd encountered had been butchered easily with a minimum of fuss and bother.

"Well, at least we got 'em on th' run, Cap'n."

"What good is that if we can't catch 'em?" Rindosh muttered.

"Well, uh, um ... we are gonna catch 'em. Ain't we?"

"Aye. That we will, Bodor. As many as we can, at any rate, an' th' rest we'll scatter runnin' with their bushtails 'n' rudders 'tween their legs. They can't get away scott free with what they did to us. Question now is, how're we gonna catch 'em?"

"Mebbe a night raid?" Bodor suggested, unknowingly anticipating the very strategy that the Gawtrybe would soon be discussing amongst themselves.

"Perhaps. But still risky. Otters could be lying in wait in those dark surf waters, t' capsize our landing boats afore they beach, an' those squirrels 'n' shrews could set up ambushes farther up on shore. Anybeasts who could do what we saw at th' mill would know a thing or two 'bout such tactics."

"But, if we don't attack t'night," Bodor countered, "they could sneak away under cover o' darkness, an' get clean away from us ... "

Rindosh stared at the creatures on shore for such a long time that Bodor wondered whether his captain had heard him. He was about to press his point when Rindosh broke his silence.

"No." He shook his head slowly. "No, they won't do that ... "

"Um, how d' you know?"

"Look at them!" Rindosh snarled, sweeping his claw toward the woodlanders. "That's an open display o' defiance, that is! They _want_ us to attack!"

"Why th' salt would they want that?" Bodor asked, still incapable of wrapping his mind around the type of enemy they faced.

"Because they're warriors! 'Cos they crave battle, an' they've decided they ain't killed enuff searats t' satisfy their bloodlust! They want us to attack, an' they'd not want that unless they were pretty confident they could make a fight of it!"

"So, what'll we do?" Bodor was totally confused now.

"I think it's time t' test some of our new weapons," Rindosh said with a cold sneer.

Bodor straightened. "You mean, th' stormpowder? We ain't s'posed to use that, in case word gets back t' Urthblood. King Tratton's orders ... "

"Tratton ain't here," Rindosh snapped, "an' Urthblood's gonna find out about it sooner or later. Give the orders, Bodor! Ready th' catapults, an' break out th' casks from belowdecks! We'll give those woodlander murderers a surprise that'll send 'em to Hellsgates, an' halfway beyond!"

00000000000

It was an uncomfortable and nervewracking night for most of the parties involved.

Browder slept fitfully, coming fully awake well before dawn, chattering and shivering in his bedroll. It wasn't as bad as the night he'd spent up on the mountain pass the summer before, when he'd made the run from Mossflower to Salamandastron in three days; on that occasion he'd had to stay awake all night stamping his footpaws and walking in circles to keep from freezing. But now, having slept some, he arose from his blankets stiff and cramped all over, and had to put himself through a full regimen of stretching exercises to get himself back into full marching shape. The lack of any hot breakfast didn't improve his outlook one bit, but Kurdyla insisted they still refrain from lighting a fire.

Some of the former slaves also had a fitful night, but for reasons very different than Browder's. In their sleep they dreamt, as they had for seasons now, of the atrocities they'd witnessed and the hardship they'd suffered during their captivity and forced labor. One day of freedom was not enough to erase this fear and anguish from their minds - indeed, a thousand days of liberation would likely be insufficient to completely banish these vile memories - but upon awakening and realizing they were no longer chained under the yoke of slavery, they greeted the new winter day with an attitude that was the total opposite of Browder's. Their previous existence had been reversed; now instead of dreaming of freedom and waking to the depressing reality of life as a slave, they could awake from nightmares of slavery to find they were now free. It was a trade they were only too happy to make.

After they'd finished their cold breakfast - which the former slaves didn't mind at all, for ordinary fare seasoned with freedom is the best-tasting food under winter sky or summer sun, spring rain or autumn colors - Klystra swooped down to make his report. The falcon had flown in a wide circle over land and sea after daybreak, and was able to verify that there were no signs of pursuit back along their trail, and that the searat dreadnought lay at anchor somewhat to the south and on the other side of the mountain range from where Browder and the slaves were headed. It appeared the searats were directing the entirety of their attention and energies to the Gawtrybe, otters and shrews who'd decoyed them south.

And so the group was on its way again by sunrise, secure in the knowledge that nobeast was chasing them and that Klystra would be able to alert them at once if that should change. For himself, Browder hoped they could make even better time today than they had on the previous afternoon. The hare wanted to be far enough inland by the time they stopped for the night so that Kurdyla would allow them to light at least one campfire. Browder was sure that one more night in the unprotected winter cold would be more than he could endure.

Over on the shore side of the mountains, meanwhile, night had come and gone with no attack from the searats. Matowick had been so sure an attack would come that he'd kept nearly half his squirrels awake at any given time during the night, watchful and ready to fight at a moment's notice. But the coming of the dawn found the _Sharktail_ still anchored in the same spot offshore, all her fighters and landing boats kept to herself for the moment.

"I don't get it," Perricone said, trying to get the sleep out of her eyes, the sand out of her fur and the cobwebs out of her head. "If they weren't going to attack under cover of darkness, you'd think they would've at least taken the opportunity to sail south and land there to cut off our escape route."

"Maybe they've figured out we're not trying to escape." Matowick stared out at the pirate vessel, immense and silent and darkly threatening on the gray morning swells. "Maybe they've realized we'd like nothing better than a fight. I'm just glad they didn't go sneaking off in the night. Otherwise, we'd have to have sent Altidor flying up and down the coast and out to sea until we'd located them again. We can't have them going back to the mill. As long as we can see them, we'll know that hasn't happened. I'll be just as happy to keep them with us, whether they attack or no."

Sergeant Grapentine couldn't stifle a huge yawn. "Yah, well, if they weren't gonna attack last night, they could've at least had the courtesy to let us know so we could all have gotten a good night's sleep. Between that leg-killing run through the sand yesterday and most of us bein' up half the night waiting for an assault that never came, I think we're all bushed ... and I'm not just talking about our tails either."

"Might be just what they had in mind," said Matowick. "Keep us off balance and guessing, maybe wear us down for a day or two before they make their move. Hope we've lost some of our sharpness by the time they do attack ... "

"Well, if that's their strategy, it's working," Perricone regretfully informed her commander. "I'm ready for a full massage from the waist down to work out all my muscle kinks, followed by two days' straight sleep in a nice soft feather bed ... "

"Can't do anything about that extra sleep, I'm afraid," Matowick said with a sudden secretive smile, "but that massage idea of yours sounds right on the mark. I could use one myself, and I'm sure every squirrel in this outfit would say the same. So here's what we'll do ... "

00000000000

"Hey! What're they doin'?"

First Mate Bodor and Boson Gumbs crowded the port railing of the _Sharktail_ in the piercing morning air, along with many of the other crewrats and fighters. After keeping a close eye on the shrew logboats during the night to make sure they neither attacked nor fled, the last thing the lookouts expected to see was all of the shrews and otters paddling ashore and hauling their twoscore or so diminutive vessels up onto the beach.

"Don't make no sense," Gumbs mumbled, scratching quizically at his scraggly jaw. "Why'd they stay out on th' water all night, sleepin' in their boats, then wait 'til dawn t' go ashore? Are they gonna abandon their liddle craft an' run up inta th' hills?"

"Dunno," Bodor muttered, and passed his long glass to his underling. "I'm gonna go wake the Cap'n. He'll wanna see this. You keep watch on 'em in case they got sumpthin' up their sleeves."

By the time Captain Rindosh joined the others at the railing, it was quite clear that flight was the last thing on the woodlanders' minds. The shrews and otters were lying all over the sand above the tideline, rubbing each others' necks and shoulders and kneading tired back muscles. Through the telescope Rindosh could see that many of the waterbeasts wore smiles of relief and relaxation and, almost, contentment.

And, farther in toward the low hills, the squirrel archers could be seen partaking in the same routine.

Rindosh bared his fangs, not sure whether he should be mortally offended or amused. "The gall! The arrogance! They've turned th' whole besotten beach inta their own pers'nal spa! An' they want us t' see it, too!"

The other rats weren't sure what to make of their captain's outburst. "Uh ... are we gonna attack?" Bodor ventured.

"Attack?" Rindosh considered giving the orders to do just that; with all the logboats grounded, those shrews and otters might have a hard time getting them crewed and pushed back into the water quickly enough to meet an attack. Then again, this could be another ruse to provoke them; those squirrels would have ample notice to rush the shoreline if they saw searat landing boats on the way, their arrows notched and bowstrings drawn to shower death upon any party of rats who ventured within range. The display they were putting on now almost seemed too preposterous to be anything but a ploy.

"No, we won't attack," Rindosh said at last. "Not now. But when the times comes, I'll remember this moment ... an' I'll make sure they know it!"


	10. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

SMASH!

Another water-filled glass bubble exploded against the lower slopes of Salamandastron, soaking the rocks and sending dangerous shards flying in all directions.

"Well, M'Lord, they're gettin' better," Captain Mattoon said to Urthblood. "Leastways, I reckon they are ... "

Weasel and badger stood at the crater rim of the mountain's plateau, observing these seagull exercises. Behind and all about them perched scores of the large seabirds, watching the proceedings or just idly waiting their turn, and occasionally squabbling amongst themselves in their raucous, screeching, beak-stabbing manner. Far below, near the southeast foot of the fortress, painted rocks had been arranged into a crude target range, visible from high in the sky. The entire target zone glistened with a damp sheen in the late winter morning, and countless fragments of broken glass glittered and sparkled on the rocky ground in a wide circle around the targets.

"They have been training for less than a day, Captain," Urthblood said to Mattoon. "You cannot expect them to perfect this technique right away."

The weasel captain snorted. "You'd think they would, M'Lord, listenin' to 'em brag 'bout how good they are at breakin' open shellfish on th' rocks to get at th' meat inside. Been doin' it fer generations, they boasted. Can hit a solitary rock with a clam from halfway up th' sky, they claimed." He gazed down at the lower slopes; the evidence there suggested anything but that kind of precision. "Sure coulda fooled me, sir."

"These vessels they're dropping now are not shellfish, but something more unwieldy, and to which they are unaccustomed. We must be patient while they hone this skill."

"As you say, M'Lord. But all this practice o' theirs is turnin' that stretch o' ground into a right hazard. Anybeast who ventures near there had best be wearin' boots, elsewise their footpaws'll be sliced t' ribbons on all that busted glass."

"We can send out a cleanup crew to sweep it all away in a few days, after the gulls' training is complete," said Urthblood. "But in the meantime, it cannot be helped."

On the plateau behind them, a team of Gawtrybe worked nonstop on fitting new glass bubbles into carrying harnesses and filling them with seawater being pumped up to the mountaintop through wood pipes, since fresh water would be too precious to spare for these exercises. Another two gulls stepped forward to claim the next prepared bubble, and immediately set upon each other with flapping wings and clashing beaks, each wanting to claim this honor for itself. The squirrels quickly retreated from the momentary melee, while Mattoon just rolled his eyes.

"I swear, these birds're nasty as any vermin I ever knowed, an' they argue worse'n shrews! Are you sure you want 'em fer allies, M'Lord?"

"This alliance is necessary for the coming conflict, Captain. I have taken ill-mannered and unrefined creatures into my service before, and made respectable fighters out of them. We have no choice but to do so again."

The quarrelsome gulls finally sorted out their differences when one backed down, and the victor took off with his heavy load clutched in his webbed talons. As he circled high over the target range, King Grullon flew in from the north and landed alongside Urthblood. The seagull ruler stood next to the crimson-armored badger and watched as the latest trainee released his burden onto the rocks far below, where it shattered most spectacularly.

"Lord Stripedog gonna drop water on searats?" Grullon inquired, puzzled.

"It will not be seawater filling those globes when we drop them on Tratton's forces," Urthblood replied cryptically.

"Oh no?" Grullon did not pursue the matter, his flighty bird thoughts flitting this way and that as was usual for his species. "Grullon's gulls tell me stripedog's bushtails having trouble maybe up north."

Urthblood turned to the seagull king. "What kind of trouble?"

"Second searat ship come, now chase stripedog's groundbeasts along shore."

Mattoon straightened in alarm. That assault force sent to attack the lumber mill represented a considerable portion of Salamandastron's troop strength, including two of his fellow captains. If it were to be wiped out ... "M'Lord, do you think we oughtta send reinforcements?"

Urthblood asked Grullon, "Have the searats tried to land and engage my forces yet?"

"Not last Grullon's gulls tell me."

"Very well," Urthblood said. "Altidor and Klystra will let us know if Captain Matowick requires assistance. That is one of the reasons I sent them along on this mission. Thank you for bringing this to our attention, Your Majesty, and please do let us know if your gulls see any change in the situation there."

"But, M'Lord!" Mattoon protested. "They're prob'ly still so far north it'd take days fer reinforcements to reach 'em! If we wait 'til the searats try anything, it'll be too late!"

"I am sure Captains Matowick, Saybrook, Riveroll and Flusk will be able to handle a single searat ship, even a full sized dreadnought. Remember, the searats would have to land in groups if they think to attack our troops, since their ship will be too big to approach the shore closely. And once they set foot on land, they will be no match for the Gawtrybe. I would not favor their chances in such a contest."

"Um, yes, M'Lord." Mattoon didn't press the point; he'd served with the Badger Lord for enough seasons to know that Urthblood was not to be second-guessed in matters of military strategy and tactics. So the weasel shut up.

"Now then," Urthblood continued, "let us try sending two gulls out at a time. It will be important for them to learn to work in unison, since any attack on Tratton will be made in force ... "

A Gawtrybe squirrel stepped forward. "My Lord, at this rate we'll have used up all the glass that Trelayne has made in just a few days ... "

"The main ingredient of glass is sand, and that we have in abundance," Urthblood responded, "so we will be able to make as much as we need. And I do have some dummy armaments these gulls can use, so that Trelayne and his assistants will not have to work themselves ragged turning out enough glass to meet our demands. I would not deplete our entire inventory just for these exercises. I realize the importance of keeping a sizable reserve on paw, just in case Tratton decides to press the matter of exactly who is the true Lord of these coastlands."

00000000000

Matowick and his squirrels almost meandered as they marched south along the coast that morning. He figured they weren't on any schedule to return to Salamandastron, and if the searats wanted to try to tire them out with mind games, he would rewrite the rules on his own terms. Thus, he struck a pace that wouldn't run his marchers ragged. It wasn't quite resting on their footpaws, and it would hardly make up for the sleep they'd missed the night before, but it would leave them enough energy to meet any attack their foe might launch.

Just beyond the breakers, the logboat fleet matched the squirrels' slow progress by doing little more than floating along on the currents, maintaining their position with the occasional paddle stroke to keep abreast of their landbound comrades. And farther offshore, the _Sharktail_ continued to shadow the southbound woodlanders, maintaining a necessarily discreet but everpresent menace to remind Urthblood's troops what was really at stake here.

As the noontide approached, the Gawtrybe halted for a leisurely lunch. Their boatmates agreed that this was a fine idea, and once more dragged their logboats up onto the sand to join their squirrel companions. Most of the otters dove into the surf and looked at first to be swimming toward the pirate dreadnought. All of these activities were being observed in minute detail from the _Sharktail_'s deck.

"Are they ... attackin'?" Gumbs the boson asked incredulously; the notion of a couple of dozen otters, armed with nothing more than knives and javelins, attacking a full-sized warship was one that would normally never have occurred to the rat, but after the way these woodlanders had been acting ...

"No, they ain't attacking," Captain Rindosh scowled, pointing shoreward. Some of the first otters into the water had already returned to the beach, clutching shellfish of various kinds. "They're fishin', that's what they're doin'! Heh heh. At this rate, moseyin' along like they're on a woodland stroll an' stoppin' fer meals, they'll not reach Salamandastron 'til near the first o' spring! An' that's fine by me! How're we doin' on those powderkegs?"

"Um, we got about a dozen packed 'n' ready fer launchin', Cap'n," First Mate Bodor reported. "Wanna hit 'em now, while they're all jus' sittin' there?"

Rindosh shook his head. "Naw, they're too spread out. Better to hit 'em when they're marchin' in that tight column they like so much. It's mostly those squirrels I wanna target. An' when I do hit 'em, I wanna hit 'em hard! Y'say we got about a dozen powderkegs prepared, Bodor? Well, I want double that number! No, triple it! Work straight through th' night if you hafta. I want those bushtailed terrors obliterated!"

Bodor felt it was his responsibility to remind his commander of one salient point. "Um, Cap'n, th' powder's never been tested in battle b'fore, unless I'm mistaken. What if it don't work?"

"Oh, it'll work, Bodor. I was at King Tratton's side fer some o' th' tests on Terramort. It's simple as lightin' th' fuse an' launchin'. An' it'll be th' last surprise most o' those squirrels ever get!"

"Well, even if it does work okay," Bodor said, "ain't it risky waitin' fer tomorrer? What if they change their minds 'bout wantin' to fight us an' run away? Scatter, so we can't use th' stormpowder on 'em?"

"They won't," Rindosh answered with certainty. "They want our blood too badly. An' they know we want theirs. They won't run from this fight. But, ah - " the searat captain stroked his chin and grinned malevolently, " - I think it is near time t' give 'em a little taste o' battle, just t' keep 'em interested. Don't want 'em gettin' bored with this game, eh?"

00000000000

The woodland warriors finished their meal in their own sweet time, then resumed their casual march in plain view of the searats, the logboat flotilla back on the water paralleling them. The _Sharktail_ too hauled up anchor and followed after them. But it quickly became apparent that the pirate vessel was intent on doing more than just following this time.

The giant ship veered landward unexpectedly and without warning. "Hey," Flusk yelled out, "what're those crazy seascum tryin' t' do, ground themselves?"

"Watch out on yer starboard sides!" Saybrook shouted to every logboat within earshot. "Searats comin' in!"

Rindosh had no intention of grounding his ship, and straightened out the dreadnought well before it was in any danger of that. The _Sharktail_ was still considerably farther from shore than the logboats, but her huge size gave the illusion of towering over the tiny river craft.

The searat captain had twoscore archers lined along the port railing. As soon as the _Sharktail_ straightened her course, the rats unleashed their shafts. They were too far from shore to reach the Gawtrybe, but the logboats were easily within range, and that was where the archers aimed.

Several shrews and an otter were hit in the first volley, one of the shrews slain instantly. Only the spacing between the logboats prevented higher casualties; Flusk and Saybrook had kept their fleet scattered and widely separated in the event of just such a move by the searats. But the pirate archers were already notching arrows to bowstrings for their second volley.

Dozens of shrews grabbed for their own bows and stood up in their logboats to return fire. This reflexive strategy proved utterly futile; the shrew bows simply didn't have the same reach as the rat longbows, and all of their shafts fell short even as three more shrews and a second otter were impaled by searat arrows.

Those beasts still at the oars also reacted instantly at the first volley. The shrew logboats were pointed at both prow and stern, so that they could cut through the water in either direction. The rowers immediately faced about in their seats and began furiously paddling in the opposite direction. They needed to get out of arrow range, and while there was no way they could expect to outpace the tremendous warship, that huge craft likewise could not reverse herself on a moment's notice like the maneuverable logboats could. The shrews and otters knew their best chance was to put themselves back behind the searat ship, rowing back north even as the _Sharktail_ bore south.

Captain Rindosh had anticipated this response, and the woodland waterbeasts saw two landing boats emerge from behind the _Sharktail_ and speed toward them in an effort to cut off their escape route. Each landing boat carried a score of burly oarsrats, rowing for all they were worth, and another dozen archer rats standing with bows at the ready. A glance over nervous shoulders revealed a third landing boat nosing out from behind the _Sharktail_'s prow. Worst of all, the immense dreadnought had come to a stop that should not have been possible for a ship of her size. The logboat fleet was effectively boxed in fore, aft and starboard. The only option left was to flee up onto the beach.

The Gawtrybe, seeing what was happening, rushed down to the shoreline with their own longbows brandished, but there was nothing they could do; the _Sharktail_ still lay beyond their range. They could only stand and watch helplessly as the logboats made for shore under further hails of searat arrows. Many more shrews and otters were shot before they could reach the safety of the beach. Two logboats never even made it that far, their entire crews wiped out by the searat barrage. Those floating coffins now bobbed macabrely out on the waves, beyond retrieval and beyond anybeast's help. They would ride the swells until the tides carried them ashore somewhere along the coast.

While the most accomplished healers amongst their present company set to work on the wounded, the rest of the squirrels lined up in defensive formation, arrows to bowstrings to meet the rats aboard the landing boats if they decided to press an attack. The smaller searat craft held their positions well offshore, making no move to approach.

"How bad is it?" Matowick asked, not sure he really wanted to hear the answer.

"Not as bad as it coulda been, I reckon," Flusk growled, lending a paw to help drag his own boat above the tideline. "Good thing those seascum ain't half the archers you Gawtrybe are. Still, they were good 'nuff to get nearly a score o' my shrews, looks like ... "

"An' about a half-dozen otters, too," Saybrook added, glancing out to sea. "Don't seem too int'rested in followin' up on this, do they? Guess they figger they don't hafta - they got what they wanted, which was us outta th' water. Never reckoned they'd try somethin' like that, comin' at us from three sides at once ... "

"This is my fault," Matowick bit off. "I was trying to goad them into an attack. It didn't occur to me they'd target the boats like this and ignore the rest of us. The captain of that dreadnought knows a thing or two about strategy."

"Aye," Saybrook agreed with a nod, "most o' Tratton's high officers do, or so 'tis said. Problem now is, they'll be able t' do th' same thing to us again if we return to th' water, an' I don't see any way we c'n defend 'gainst it."

"Unless mebbe we string out th' boats so few an' far between that those vermin can't bottle us up in a cluster agin like they just did," Flusk suggested. "Either that, or have us row on ahead, so's they won't know whether t' chase after us or stick with you squirrels 'n' slaves ... "

Matowick shook his head. "I don't want us to split up if we can help it. We've got a strength together that we wouldn't have separately. If they drive us off the water, we'll be forced to fight them on the land alone when they attack, and that's not an advantage I'm sure I want to give up."

"Only one thing to do then," said Saybrook, "an' that's fer us t' stick closer t' shore, an' make right back fer th' beach th' moment we see that big ship movin' in on us again." The otter captain glanced out at the waiting searats. "If they'll even let us take to th' waves again, that is."

"Oh, they'll let you," Matowick said with grim determination, and his eyes went to one of the beached logboats. In the bottom of it lay some of the tools the otters had used to sink the _Wavehauler_. "I think it's time to let the rats out in those landing boats know they're not welcome on these shores ... "

00000000000

It was fortunate for the woodlanders that the searats were totally unfamiliar with their burial practices. Thus, when the deceased shrews and otters were reverently laid out in several of the logboats, solemnly arranged in poses of eternal rest, the watching rats had no way of knowing it was all a ruse.

Four otters guided each funeral boat past the breakers to the gentler swells beyond, out where the other two abandoned logboats still floated. It looked like they intended for all their fallen comrades to ride the waves together wherever time and tide carried them.

It came as a complete surprise when the otters propelled the funeral boats all the way out to the waiting searat landing boats, where hull met hull with a solid wooden thunk!

The rat archers aboard the landing boats had no clear shots at the otter escorts, who stayed in the water where they could shelter behind the shrew craft. This didn't stop the archers from trying, however, even though none of their shafts found a target. A few of the errant arrows struck the dead lying in the logboats, but they were past complaining.

Thus shielded from the searats' barbs, Saybrook's squad was free to work in relative safety. Otters can hold their breaths much longer than any other land creature, and each one was able to drill completely through the bottom hull of one landing boat or another before having to swim back out behind the logboats to stick their heads up for air. They repeated this cycle as many times as they could.

When the holes began appearing faster than they could be plugged, the searats were left no choice but to retreat to the _Sharktail_. The otters steered the dead-laden logboats back to shore, retrieving the two errant vessels for good measure so that none of the rats' victims would be left out on the high seas.

"Hah, lookit them run!" Flusk crowed triumphantly. "That'll show 'em who owns these coastal waters!"

"Still, I wish we could have killed at least a few of them," Matowick added in disappointment. "Just to show them we're not to be trifled with."

"Woulda been too dangerous, Matty matey," Saybrook said, dragging his logboat ashore. "If we'd poked our heads above water long 'nuff t' chuck knives an' javelins at 'em, we'd o' lost more otters. S'pose we coulda tried t' capsize those tubs an' had at 'em on our own turf ... "

"Maybe you can use that strategy the next time ... if there is a next time." Matowick looked to the beached logboats full of the dead. "Now let's give our fallen brethren the proper heroes' burial they deserve."

00000000000

Rindosh personally inspected the damaged landing boats once they were winched back aboard the _Sharktail_. The searat captain poked his paw through the various holes that had blossomed in the hulls of the small craft. "This explains how they were able t' sink th' _Wavehauler_," Rindosh muttered to himself. "An' mebbe th' _Scorpiontail_ too ... "

Choxin, the rat who'd been in charge of the assault on the shrew and otter convoy, fretted and fidgeted at his captain's side. "There was nuthin' we could do, Cap'n sir! They was hidin' behind their own dead! An' when they drilled these holes, they was right under us - no way fer us t' get at 'em!"

"Don't worry yer whiskers gray, Choxin - I ain't gonna reprimand you fer this." Rindosh stood back, paws folded across his chest as he studied the damaged landing craft. "At least now we know what they might do if we try a massed landin' ... "

"Aye," nodded Bodor, standing at his captain's side. "An' didja see how them squirrel devils came rushin' right up t' th' tideline, their bows all out an' ready t' shoot? If we'd attacked, they'da cut us down afore we'd stepped outta th' boats!"

"Precisely why I haven't tried a massed shore assault," Rindosh confirmed.

"Yeah, but them otters was right there, so close we coulda reached out an' touched 'em!" Bodor complained. "Not only did we not get any of 'em, but they ruined our boats!"

Rindosh gave his first mate's shoulder a companionly pat. "Hardly ruined, Bodor matey. A little pitch an' a few patches, an' they'll be good as new. An' as fer those woodlanders, I reckon we slew near a score of 'em ... an' they can't absorb losses like that th' way we could. We hurt 'em more'n they hurt us, an' that's what counts!"

"Yeah, I guess, Cap'n. So, whatta we do now?"

"We've shown them who owns these seas." Rindosh turned to return to his command deck. "Move the _Sharktail_ back to her former position. We'll keep an eye on our woodland friends, and leave th' next move to them. But as long as they're still in sight come tomorrow, won't much matter what they do!"

00000000000

It took the rest of the afternoon for Urthblood's troops to bury their dead, high enough above the tideline so that the graves would not be eroded by stormy seas. Two pits were dug, one for the shrew casualties and one for the otters, and when the sandy soil was filled in over the bodies, a logboat was placed over each mound, upside down and with the names of the fallen carved into the skyward-pointing hulls. The two craft could be spared, sadly, now that there were that many fewer crewbeasts among their caravan.

It was too late in the day to resume their march, so the squirrels headed back up to the foothills to set up camp for the night, while the shrews and otters returned to their logboats to keep their offshore vigil. In spite of the proven risks in staying afloat, it was still the best way to protect against a nighttime invasion by the searats.

Or so they wanted the rats aboard the pirate dreadnought to think.

The Gawtrybe campfires blazed well into the night, finally dying down after midnight as most of the squirrels presumably fell into their nocturnal slumbers. The line of shrew logboats held their position, their crews sleeping in turns, the first tier of defense that any searat attack would have to penetrate.

Halfway toward dawn, all the shrews and otters unexpectedly took up their oars and began paddling southward, vacating the waters between the _Sharktail_ and shore. Even in the dark of an overcast night, this development did not go unnoticed by the searat watchers, and shortly Captain Rindosh was up on his command deck, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders over his hastily-donned uniform to help ward off the winter sea chill. Leave it to these accursed woodland warriors to interrupt his sleep with some trick like this and force him out of his warm bed and into making tactical decisions while he was still fuzzy-headed!

"What're yer orders, Cap'n?" Gumbs the bosun wanted to know.

Rindosh thought aloud. "Did they all leave, or just th' boats? If the squirrels went too, then they're all headed south right now while we're just sittin' here. Mebbe those squirrels are still there, an' this is another ruse, t' make us go chasin' th' boats while they head off in a diff'rent direction. But, if we send a team ashore t' find out, they could be lyin' in wait fer us, wantin' payback fer what we did to 'em yesterday ... "

"I thought you said they weren't gonna run from us?" Gumbs asked.

"Still not sure they are," Rindosh replied, "but they may've had a change o' heart after th' damage we did 'em, knowin' they can't weather too many more clashes like that. Still, th' mountains are at their backs, so they can only go north or south." He considered the situation in silence for a few moments, while his crewrats stood by in anticipation awaiting his orders.

"Okay," he said at last, "send two landing boats ashore well north o' here, an' set up an ambush line. If those bushtails try t' double back th' way they came, we'll cut 'em off. An' if they went south, we'll have no trouble catching up with 'em once day breaks. They can't run or paddle as fast as we can sail, an' we're south o' th' River Moss, so there's no bay or estuary 'tween here an' Salamandastron where they can detour inland. We'll overtake 'em in no time ... an' then we'll give 'em the surprise o' their short lives!"

"But ... why're they runnin' at all, if they know they got nowhere t' run to, an' we c'n catch 'em up with no trouble?" Gumbs asked, confused.

"They may not all be runnin'," Rindosh reminded his bosun. "That's why we're stayin' put 'til mornin'. It's called tactics an' strategy, Gumbs. Learn it, an' mebbe someday you'll get yer own ship t' command." Rindosh flashed his underling a fang-filled grin, then went below to warm his bed once more until daybreak.


	11. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

The searat shore party positioned itself in a staggered line north of the now-extinguished Gawtrybe campfires, stringing themselves across the beach and foothills in a living blockade of archers and swordsbeasts. If their enemy tried to escape this way, the searats would be waiting for them in the dark.

Dawn came without a skirmish, or any sign of the squirrels. Rat scouts probed out under the brightening sky, quickly confirming what was already suspected: there were just the Gawtrybe tracks going south, and none headed north again. Their quarry was either still at their camp, or else they'd resumed their southward march under cover of darkness.

The landing party piled into their two boats and rowed down to where the woodlanders had last been seen. The _Sharktail_ still lay at anchor offshore there, awaiting final word from her shorebound scouts before taking up the chase again. The two landing boats grounded north and south of the camp so that their crews could approach the Gawtrybe from two sides at once. If the squirrels hid there still, the smaller number of searats could catch them in a pincer maneuver to even the odds a little more in their favor. There was no sign of habitation or movement visible from sea or from the shoreline, but the rats proceeded with caution in case their wily and warlike foe lay in wait for them.

The rats coming in from below the camp saw the southbound tracks of many marching paws, and sure enough the would-be attackers closed in on an empty campsite, with not a squirrel or former slave to be found. Their enemy had indeed bugged out during the night, perhaps even before the shrews and otters had struck south in their logboats.

The assault team hurried back to the _Sharktail_, and not long after the sun had cleared the mountaintops, the pirate dreadnought was under full sail, the fully-crewed rowing galley adding to her speed.

It was nearly midday before the searats caught up to Urthblood's troops. The squirrels still marched along the mid-coastal plain making no attempt to hide themselves, the black-and-red badger banner snapping in the shore breeze above their vanguard. The shrews and otters hugged the shoreline, steering their logboats as close to the beach as they could without getting caught in the forming breakers. As soon as the _Sharktail_ came into view, the waterbeasts kept a very close eye on her, ready to make for shore the moment the searats showed the slightest indication of closing in for another pass at them. They'd learned their lesson the hard way, and would not easily be taken by surprise a second time.

Captain Rindosh had resumed his station of command on the high deck of his ship, studying his adversary through his long glass. He still felt a little lagged from his interrupted sleep, but took a modicum of satisfaction from the likelihood that his enemies were running themselves ragged. To have gotten this far south, the squirrels must have departed while their decoy fires were still blazing, and kept up their pace ever since. That meant they would be both physically tired and short on sleep. Fortunately, their target destination of Salamandastron still lay at least another two days' march to the south, and Rindosh had no intention of letting them get any closer.

"Well, you was right, Cap'n," Bodor told him. "They didn't scatter, even after what we done to 'em yesterday."

"The squirrels haven't," Rindosh corrected his first mate, "'cos they think they're high enough up on the beach t' be safe from anything we can throw their way. But look at th' logboats - they're keepin' closer to shore than they was before, an' they're even more strung out, with lotsa space 'tween 'em. Wouldn't be so easy to box 'em in like we did yesterday. See? They're learnin' on th' fly, adaptin' to our strategies as they need ta. That's what real warriors do."

"You don't sound too upset about it, Cap'n."

"That's 'cos our attack on 'em yesterday was a feint - just as much a ruse as them lightin' those campfires then runnin' away in th' night. They just don't know it. This's a game we're playin' with each other ... an' it's time fer us t' make our main move!"

Rindosh compacted his spyglass and bounded down from his command deck to the port side, where the catapults had been rolled into position on their tracked platforms. Kegs of the stormpowder - one of the two secret weapons of Tratton's that the _Sharktail_ carried - were being brought up from belowdecks and lined up along the railing. The four catapults, each a full-sized siege weapon, had been angled to aim at their onshore adversary. But before they could reveal this surprise to the enemy, the searats had to fine-tune the targeting of their long-range weaponry to make sure they wouldn't waste any of the precious powder - or the element of surprise - on wild shots that missed the woodlanders by a wide margin.

Bosun Gumbs approached Rindosh with a cask. "Y' reckon this'll do fer th' test, Cap'n?"

Rindosh took the cask and held it in his paws. A liquid within gurgled and sloshed. "Is it th' same weight as th' weapon kegs?"

"Aye, Cap'n. We emptied some outta those so's they'd be near as like t' identical ... "

"Fine. Load one in each catapult an' - "

"Cap'n, Cap'n!" the lookout shouted down from the crow's nest through his megaphone. "They're goin' ashore!"

Rindosh looked up from the keg in his claws. Even without his long glass, he could clearly see that the squirrels had come to a stop and were taking seats in the sand, while the shrews and otters were beaching their logboats and joining their landbound comrades.

"Of course, of course," Rindosh said with a spreading grin. "They been marchin' half th' night an' all this morn - they hadta stop fer a rest an' a meal sooner or later, 'specially after how they been pushin' themselves. An' now that they know we know right where they are, they got no reason t' hurry or hide. This might just work out. Lessee how it goes ... "

The searat captain's grin grew even wider as he watched the woodland warriors array themselves on the beach, squirrels and otters and shrews and slaves all mingled together in one large and relatively compact gathering. Rindosh had all he could do to keep from breaking into a joyful jig of anticipation.

"Lookit that! They're all t'gether now! All them scurvy shrews an' ornery otters and scallywag squirrels! We'll be able t' hit 'em all at once! They're makin' this too easy! Too easy! Bring us about an' drop anchor so we're directly abreast of 'em! I want this done right!"

Under his barrage of commands, Rindosh's crew had the _Sharktail_ lined up parallel to Urthblood's forces before the woodlanders were halfway through their meal. The squirrels, otters and shrews thought nothing of this, since the pirate ship had done the exact same thing during their previous rest stops. Had Matowick or one of the others bothered to glance through the Gawtrybe captain's long glass, they might have been able to make out the quartet of catapults deployed on the port deck of the dreadnought. As it was ...

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"Watch out!"

One of the sharp-eyed squirrels saw the cask arcing through the sky toward them. Creatures scrambled this way and that, and somehow Urthblood's troops and the freed slaves managed to get out of the projectile's way. The small wooden keg broke apart upon contact with the soft ground, so high had its flight been. Its dark contents spilled across the sand, staining it the shade of a ripe plum where the liquid splashed and soaked in.

"What th' fur was that?" Matowick declared, pulling out his telescope. "Do they have catapults or something?"

"Whelp, those ARE pretty big ships," Saybrook said, stroking his whiskers. "S'pose there's room fer Tratton t' install such a contraption on his dreadnoughts."

"Make that four such contraptions," Matowick corrected, taking stock of the situation through his long glass. "All lined up pretty as a - Look out, they just launched another one!"

Now that they knew to expect the incoming missiles, the marchers had no problem dodging the next three small kegs. An otter suffered some bruises when he misjudged one cask's trajectory and it glanced off his thick tail. That cask failed to smash open as a result of this ricochet, and came to rest upon the sand intact.

They stood tensed beneath the gray winter sky, eyes raised and reflexes on alert, but no more of the cumbersome projectiles came at them. A shrew crawled on all fours, sniffing at the spilled fluid. "Wine?" he guessed from the aroma. "Red wine?"

A squirrel unbunged the intact cask with his knife and took a swallow, swishing the liquid across his tongue. "Yup," he confirmed, "red wine it is. Rather nice bouquet to it, too. Those rats musta pillaged it from some goodbeasts - can't believe scurvy seascum could vint something so fine."

"What're y' thinkin', matey?" one of the otters exploded. "They coulda poisoned th' stuff!"

The squirrel shook his head. "Nope. No poison in this."

"How can y' know fer shore? Most poisons can't be tasted."

Matowick laid a paw on the anxious otter's shoulder. "Not to worry, my friend. Barclom here has been personally trained by Lord Urthblood himself in the ways of poisons. He can taste even trace amounts of the most subtle posions in any food or drink you give him. If he says it's safe, it's safe."

"Besides," Barclom added, "they were breaking open when they hit. That'd kinda defeat their whole purpose, wouldn't it, poisoning wine an' then launching it so it sprays all over the place ... "

"Maybe these wine casks were the only thing they had to fling at us that were small but heavy." Matowick resumed his study of the searat ship through his long glass. "I mean, you can't expect a seagoing vessel to be hauling around large stashes of rocks, now, can you?"

"Then, why would they have catapults at all, if they don't carry any ammunition for 'em too?" Saybrook wondered.

"My guess," said Matowick as he squinted through his telescope, "is that those catapults were being delivered to the mill. Remember, that site was in the process of being expanded, and Lord Urthblood thought they might try to fortify it into a full military stronghold. Catapults would fit with that. These searats must have broken them out of storage to harass us with them. But if jugs of wine is the worst they can throw at us ... Well, they don't seem to be getting ready to launch anything else right away. I think I see more casks on the deck ... can't be sure. Maybe they see how little effect it's had ... "

"I say we show 'em how badly they've failed," Barclom proposed. "Wine, anybeast?"

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"Why ain't they a-scatterin'?" Gumbs puzzled aloud. "They seen we can hit 'em ... "

Rindosh shared his bosun's mystification at first, peering intently through his long glass to see how the woodlanders would respond to his targeting tests. The searat captain had his armaments lined up and ready to fire, anticipating that his enemy might quickly disperse upon realizing they were under bombardment. He'd thought that he would probably have to start launching the powder weapons within a matter of heartbeats in order to inflict the maximum harm upon them while they were still all gathered together. But some instinct had made him pause to gauge his adversary's reaction. He was now very glad that he had. Very glad indeed. "I ... don't ... believe ... this ... "

"Wha ... it looks like they're all sittin' back down!" Bodor said from Rindosh's other side.

"That they are," Rindosh confirmed, grinning wickedly. "And they're enjoying our little gift ... " Through his eyepiece, he could clearly see several of the squirrels and otters raising their travel cups and mugs of wine in his direction in a silent toast, carefree smiles upon their faces.

"They're daft!" Gumbs declared. "Total gull guts in their skulls! Why, they're even closer t'gether than afore!"

Rindosh slowly lowered his spyglass. "They don't realize th' wine was just a test," he said in dawning enlightenment. "They must think that's all we got t' throw at 'em. Oh, this's perfect! Perfect!" He sprang up onto the nearest catapult platform where he could command the attention of every rat along the port deck. "Awright, get a powder cask in each catapult, light th' fuses an' let 'em rip! Winchers, be ready t' crank back fer another shot soon as yer first one's away! I wanna hit 'em again 'n' again, pound 'em until that beach is red with their blood! Blow 'em t' bits! I wanna see paws an' legs an' tails an' heads litterin' th' sand, corpses strewn about so thick y' can't walk wi'out treadin' on 'em! Death t' th' woodland murderers! Death! Death! DEATH!"

Four _clunks!_ were clear in the sea air as the weapons were loaded, and Rindosh heard the sparking fizz as the fuse nearest him was lit. He jumped down to the main deck to give the gunners room to work. "An' try not t' blow up my ship," he added under his breath.

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"Heads up! Here come some more!"

By now Urthblood's troops felt they knew the routine. The flying casks weren't really that difficult to dodge, once you knew to expect them and could pick them up while they were still high in their trajectory. The overcast sky helped, since there was no chance of losing them in the sun's glare.

On the other paw, the gray cloud cover hid the tenuous smoke trail spiraling out from each projectile ... not that the woodlanders would have known what to make of such an anomaly even if they had noticed it, nor how to react even if they'd suspected what horror was about to be rained down upon them.

In the very last moments before impact, as everybeast stood and tried to anticipate the exact landing spot of each keg, Matowick sensed that something was wrong. "I've got a bad feeling about - "

The first explosion tore at his tufted ears and rocked him on his footpaws. He glanced to his left, from where the blast had come, and saw a huge plume of smoke and sand and dust - and yes, there might have been a slight pink tint to it as well - rising from amidst the gathered beasts, obscuring fully a third of the fighters behind its impossible veil.

The second blast hit even closer, throwing the Gawtrybe captain off his feet. A roaring deafness filled his skull, a resounding ringing that drowned out all noises from the beach around him. He had trouble drawing breath, as if the wind had been knocked out of him.

He felt rather than heard the next two explosion. They were not as close to him as the second had been, but lying full-out on the sand as he was, Matowick could feel the seismic _whoomp!_ against his chest through the ground, the concussions further conspiring to rob him of his ability to breathe. It felt as if the whole beach was being flung up into the air with each massive burst, like some giant fist was hammering at him from deep beneath the earth.

The next thing he felt was a pair of strong paws lifting him to his feet and half-dragging him across the sand. Matowick was left no choice but to stumble along as best he could to keep up. He opened his eyes, but that effort benefitted him little; it seemed as if the entire world had gone away, and been replaced by a shifting, swirling curtain of beige dust and gray smoke that obscured all. The hanging detritus stung the eyes, and the burning smell of brimstone and charcoal clogged the nostrils - the same odor that had filled the night air when the _Scorpiontail_ blew up alongside the lumber mill dock. Matowick blinked to clear his vision, and was able to make out his paw in front of his face, and the stalwart otter next to him who bore most of his weight, but everything else was hazy and indistinct. He could discern a few other shadowy figures stumbling through the false twilight, lurching this way and that without any clear direction or destination in mind. Worst of all was the occasional still form that his footpaws found beneath them, a former comrade who may have been dead or merely stunned. But his otter guardian did not slow their hurried pace or spare a moment's hesitation for those who were beyond help, or would have to help themselves now. This otter clearly did have an objective in mind, and that objective became clear as Matowick saw the dirty mist part before him to reveal the sea.

He was guided between beached logboats and propelled down to the tideline. Cold water lapped around his ankles, helping to shock him back to reality. But the otter urged him farther out into the surf, until the waves were washing across his chest. Only then did his protector leave Matowick free to stand where he was, although the otter kept a firm paw on the squirrel captain's shoulder for support.

The surf was filling with otters. In times of stress and danger, it was their natural instinct to seek the safety of the water. Now, all who'd survived this bombardment and could still walk made their way to the waterline and entered the briny sanctuary. Whether it would truly be any safer than the beach, only time would tell.

Several more squirrels joined the refugees as well, borne into the water as Matowick had been. Although Matowick didn't know it then, Captain Saybrook had, after the second explosion, ordered his otters to charge into the cloud where he'd seen the Gawtrybe commander go down and rescue every fallen squirrel they could find. Saybrook was determined to keep at least himself and Matowick alive so that the survivors of this hellacious event would not be left without leadership.

The otter captain stood several beasts down from Matowick, frantically scanning the faces around him. Upon spotting his fellow officer, Saybrook made his way to Matowick's side and began conversing with him. The squirrel could see Saybrook's mouth moving, but not a word of his comrade's speech penetrated the dull roar in his ears. Matowick shook his head and said, "I can't hear you," pointing at his ears. He could only faintly discern his own words, even though he knew he was practically shouting.

Saybrook regarded him blankly for a moment, then gave a nod and flashed the "okay" sign with his paw. He turned and barked silent orders to his fellow otters on either side. Those who did not have a squirrel to support immediately dove into the waves and swam away to the north or south. Matowick assumed Saybrook meant to scatter his forces so that they'd be less vulnerable to a second barrage - something Matowick would have been doing with his Gawtrybe, had he been in any position to do so.

That barrage came even as the thought occurred to him. The smoke and dust from the first bombardment still hung thick over the devastated, body-strewn beach when new geysers of death blossomed amid the haze, hurling sand and creatures high into the air. Although he could barely hear the explosions, the force of each one rattled his lungs and vibrated through the sea floor into his footpaws, while the blast waves rushed against his face like puffs of summer wind. As horrible as the explosions had been up close, they were even more nightmarish at this slight remove. The thought of how many goodbeasts must be suffering and dying within those sulferous clouds ...

What in Hellsgates had Tratton unleashed upon the world? Not even Lord Urthblood possessed a weapon like this.

That thought awakened a new resolve in Matowick's breast. Now more than ever, Lord Urthblood must know of this. It was imperative that somebeast among their present company survive to tell the Badger Lord what had happened here. Looking at the destruction that had been wrought upon the beach, it was easy to suppose that no creature could emerge from that alive.

Matowick glanced skyward and glimpsed Altidor soaring high above the scene of battle. Well, word would reach Urthblood one way or another. But Matowick felt the badger would really need a report from somebeast who'd been on the ground and experienced the attack firstpaw. Felt the blast, smelled and tasted the sharp powder tang in the air, seen the mist of blood mingled with the smoke and dust ... and the beasts being thrown up into the air like so many children's toys. The eagle scout probably didn't even know what was happening down here, from that altitude. No, it would have to be one of his squirrels, or Saybrook's otters, or Flusk's shrews. Only they could do justice to the horrors they'd experienced this day.

Now, all they had to do was stay alive long enough to reach Salamandastron.

Saybrook took charge of Matowick and steered them south of the battle so that they would not be standing directly between the searats and the helpless victims ashore. Aboard the _Sharktail_, meanwhile, Rindosh had his crew readying the third volley of stormpowder kegs.

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Browder paused in mid-stride, foot hanging in the air. "Wot's that?"

"Sounds like thunder," Kurdyla said. "Distant thunder."

"Thunder? In th' bloomin' winter? Not jolly likely." The hare gazed skyward. "B'sides, doesn't look like a storm. Kinda gray an' overcast, but not stormy."

The big otter cocked his head. "Well, there 'tis again. If it ain't thunder, whaddya reckon it be?"

Browder and his procession of former slaves were into the true Western Plains by this time, but still many days north and west of Redwall, and still closer to the coast than to Mossflower proper. The mountains were at their backs, and although they couldn't know what was happening miles away, they were at that moment directly opposite the stretch of beach where the _Sharktail_ was unleashing Tratton's terrible new weapon upon Urthblood's marchers. Had the mountain range not stood between them and the sea, they might even have been able to see the clouds of smoky sand dust rising from along the shoreline.

As it was, the refugees from the searat lumber mill could only hear, and that faintly, the results of the turmoil on the coast. But for their winged escort, circling high above, the mountains posed no impediment; both Plains and seacoast lay spread out below Klystra, and the falcon's keen hunter's vision missed nothing.

"Well, wotever it was, it seems to've stopped ... which is just fine by me." Browder resumed his forward pace. Kurdyla and the rest of the slaves followed along after him, as they'd been doing for the past two days.

The player hare's spirits were considerably higher now that Kurdyla was allowing them to light campfires at night. That meant freshly-cooked food in their bellies for supper and breakfast, and a warm blaze to stave off the winter chill when they were snuggled in their bedding at night.

The otter was also insistent that they take turns standing watch at night. What he expected their group of mostly untrained woodlanders to do if they were set upon by an enemy force wasn't entirely clear, nor was the reason he had for suspecting they might encounter trouble out here on the deserted winter plains. But after the murderous tendencies Kurdyla and a few of the others had displayed at the searat camp, Browder had little desire to argue the point with him.

The company hadn't gone very far when the faint booms were heard once more echoing across the sky. "Now that is bally unnerving," Browder decided, casting his gaze about him once again.

When their procession was stopped a second time, it was not to puzzle over this phenomenon further, but because a large bird blocked their path. Klystra had glided down from his airborne outpost to land right in front of them. "Big booms," the bird announced.

"Yah, we heard 'em too," said Browder. "Don't know what they are, tho'."

The falcon cocked his head toward the mountains. "From coastlands. Big clouds on beach."

"Stormclouds?" Kurdyla asked.

"Not skyclouds," the bird shook his head. "Right on ground. Right on beach."

"Oh, you mean like mist or fog comin' in off th' bally ocean? Don't know why that'd make thunder, wot?"

Klystra stamped his talon impatiently. "Listen. Searats make thunder. Searats make clouds, of dust and smoke, with their weapons. New weapons, that throw land up into sky. Very powerful."

Browder and the slaves stood agog at this revelation. The hare looked to Kurdyla. "I say, you lot are th' ones who've been spendin' so much time with searats, even if it wasn't your choice. This ring any bally bells?"

The otter shook his head, face blank. "News to us, matey." He glanced back at the sole rat in their midst. "Hey, Syrek! This anything you heard 'bout from yer fellow rats 'fore they clapped you in irons?"

The rat Syrek shrugged. "Dunno, matey. King Tratton's allers comin' up with new weapons. He don't share 'is secrets with laborbeasts like me."

Klystra broke into their discussion. "Friends need help. I go fly to them, see if I assist them."

"But, they've got their fine eagle chap Altidor," Browder countered anxiously. "You're s'posed to stay with us, wot?"

"Maybe now they need us both," Klystra said, turning to take off. "Will return if I can." And with that, the falcon flapped into the air, winging his way toward the mountains.

They all stood for several moments, watching in silence as Klystra's regal form dwindled into the distance. "Well, " Browder concluded at last, "looks like we're on our own now, wot?"


	12. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

Rindosh called a halt to the bombardment after the third volley. The beach where his enemy had been now lay completely hidden by a pall of smoke and dust, and what was the point of repeatedly pulverizing the same stretch of sand over and over again? Most everybeast in the target area who hadn't been incapacitated by the first salvo would have had the opportunity to get clear by now, and the searat captain did not wish to waste his precious stormpowder blasting creatures who were already dead into smaller and smaller pieces.

The moment the first volley was launched, Rindosh clambered up the rigging to the _Sharktail_'s crow's nest to survey the results through his long glass. Before his magnified, one-eyed gaze, the dust and smoke gradually cleared, swirling up toward the dull gray sky and wafting away on the chill ocean breeze. A few scattered woodlanders could still be seen stumbling their way out of the haze up and down the beach, and a number of otters and squirrels stood in the surf out to the depth of their waists or their chests, but these visible survivors were but a small portion of the enemy's total force.

When the veil of death finally lifted to reveal the horrible panorama of carnage, Rindosh was both immensely pleased and mildly disappointed. The nightmarish display of corpses and body parts strewn along the pitted beach was surely enough to haunt any woodland warrior for the rest of its life. But, while it was difficult to estimate the number of dead due to the state of the bodies, Rindosh judged there to be between twoscore and threescore corpses lying upon the ruined coastal plain, and fully half of them looked to be shrews. There were at least a dozen squirrels among the dead, but the searat captain had been primarily targeting those archerbeasts in the first place, and was somewhat disheartened that he hadn't gotten more of them. He could spy only one or two slain otters; most of them seemed to have escaped to the sea at the first sign of trouble.

Rindosh raised his spyglass to search farther inland. Ah, there they were! Numerous patches and flashes of red fur up in the higher dunes. If the otters' first thoughts had been to flee to the water, then it was only natural that the squirrels would instinctively head for higher ground. But it was evident from the way many were sitting, lying, staggering, limping and crawling that injuries were rampant among the survivors. Rindosh smiled to himself. Now that was more like it!

Now, if only there was some way he could get them to all gather together again for one more bombardment as damaging as the first had been. Then, their force would be well-enough decimated that he could just send ashore his fighters to wipe out the rest. Of course, if they all stayed up in the dunes to lick their wounds like they were now, he could just have his gunners recalibrate the catapults to shoot the stormpowder kegs higher up onto the beach. Rindosh was fairly certain his enemy were still within range. He could always just move the _Sharktail_ a little closer to shore if they had to.

The problem was, those crafty squirrels could not be counted on to stay in one spot long enough for him to get another clear shot at them, and they would certainly not congregate in a large group now that they knew how vulnerable that made them. And Rindosh most certainly would not expend his limited stocks of powder trying to annihilate isolated groups of two or three squirrels. He would not use his new superweapon unless he could herd his enemy close together again ...

A thought occurred to the searat commander then. He'd sailed these seas for many seasons, and was very familiar with this coastline north of Salamandastron. Swinging his long glass south, he could make out the flat top of the mountain fortress, still several days' march away; the height of the crow's nest offered him an extensive view of land and sea in all directions. He moved the telescope tube down for a look at the nearer stretches of coastlands. If memory served him correctly ...

Ah, there it was! Less than a day's march south of them, the place he'd remembered: a span of beach where the mountains encroached upon the sea, narrowing the sand above the tideline to a slender file just a few paces wide. If he could get his remaining enemies to that spot, they would be caught with the mountains at their backs, nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, and no escape from another stormpowder barrage. It would be perfect!

Rindosh returned his attention to the woodlanders at paw. Sure enough, all were retreating to higher ground; even the otters and squirrels who'd taken refuge in the surf now made their way one or two at a time out of the sea and up toward the high dunes. And even now they were starting to space themselves out behind the natural sand barriers. Yes, they'd learned their lesson.

"Enjoy yer little rest while y' can, you bloodthirsty hooligans!" Rindosh snarled to himself. "I'll get you on th' move again, you c'n count on that!"

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Matowick was surprised to find both Klystra and Altidor awaiting him behind the dunes when he and Saybrook finally made their way up to rejoin the others. Lieutenant Perricone, hobbling about on a leg that was at the very least sprained if not outright broken, had taken charge of the regrouping survivors, and had the wherewithal to spread their ranks thin. The Gawtrybe knew a thing or two themselves about the vulnerability of a tightly-packed group of beasts as opposed to those who were widely dispersed.

She threw a paw around her captain's shoulder, as much to support herself as to greet him, relief plain on her face. As they walked toward the two birds, Perricone started to give Matowick her report on the situation, but her words weren't penetrating the ringing in his head, so she leaned closer to him and started over, practically shouting into his ear.

"Captain Flusk is dead," she informed him, "and so is Sergeant Grapentine. The shrews wanted to get right to electing a new acting captain, but I told them they couldn't gather together all in one place for that, so they've put it off for the time being. They hit us pretty hard, sir. At least fifty dead, and nearly that many wounded."

"Bloody fur!" Matowick shouted back. "What about you, Perri? How bad off are you?"

She dismissed his concern. "Oh, a splint and some bandages, and I'll be able to stump along with the best of them, all the way back to Salamandastron! At least they didn't get my shooting paws. Put a searat within arrow range, and I'll be able to take 'im down! I'm just happy to see you and Saybrook. For awhile there I was beginning to think I was the only officer who'd made it outta that mess alive. And I don't think I would've been up to the task."

They had nearly reached the waiting eagle and falcon. Perricone started to lean away from Matowick. "This's where I leave you, Captain. Don't want all our remaining officers in one spot in case one of those kegs comes down on top of us. You'd better come with me too, Captain Saybrook. I'm sure your otters can fill you in on what's been happening with them and the shrews."

"Good thinkin', Perri lass!" the otter commander agreed, letting the injured Gawtrybe lieutenant lean on him. "It'll be a bit of a hassle coordinatin' things 'tween us if we officers can't meet face t' face, but we'll figger somethin' out!"

Matowick watched them go, then went up to the two raptors. "Captain Klystra, what are you doing here? I thought you were with Browder."

The falcon explained - loudly - how he'd seen and heard the searat bombardment even from high above the mountains and plains, and had taken his leave of the freed slaves to see if he could be of assistance to the beleaguered assault force.

"I'm very glad you did," Matowick said, looking at both birds. "One of you must fly straightaway to Salamandastron and let Lord Urthblood know what's happened here. There's a chance that none of us here will survive long enough to reach the mountain, and it is vital that word of this new searat weapon be delivered where it can do some good. And there's no surveillance two of you could do for me that couldn't be done just as well by one of you. At this point, warning Lord Urthblood is more important than what happens to us."

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Farther down the beach, ensconced behind another dune, Saybrook met with Lieutenant Dranker, the ranking otter from Captain Riveroll's squad, to discuss matters of a more nautical nature.

"That ship's gotta be scuttled," Saybrook announced, "an' that's all there is to it. They could start launchin' more o' them boomer casks at any moment, an' most of our squirrel friends ain't in much shape fer dodgin' 'em this time 'round. If those searat catapults've got th' range t' reach back behind these dunes 'ere, Cap'n Matowick's team could be all but wiped clean out."

"Half-surprised they haven't started already," Dranker commented.

"Well, they prob'ly see how we got ourselves spread out up here. That was good thinkin' on Perricone's part. But it's just a matter o' time 'fore they figger out that some of us are a good share less mobile than others, an' target th' wounded. We're still strong enuff t' fend off any attack force they try 'n' land, but we won't be if they hit us again like they just did. I aim t' have that dreadnought on th' ocean bottom afore that happens."

"Aye, Cap'n." Dranker nodded in complete agreement. "We only lost two otters in that attack, so we're better off than our squirrel an' shrew mateys. Got nearly twoscore, all hale 'n' hearty an' ready when you say th' word, sir."

"Fine. We'll need every one of 'em fer what I got in mind." Saybrook poked his head around the dune to throw a glance seaward. "All th' logboats're where we left 'em, an' so are our breachin' tools. Reckon we got enuff t' put an awl or prybar in th' paws of ev'ry otter here. We're gonna hit that searat ship hard on all sides, an' fill 'er so full o' holes that they won't be able t' plug 'em fast enuff!"

He glanced up the shore to where most of the Gawtrybe were scattered behind the high dunes. "I'm a-worried 'bout them, tho'. Our bushtailed mateys got one officer who can barely hear an' another who can barely walk, an' th' shrews don't have a captain t'all. An' what leaders they do have dare not meet fer safety's sake."

"That's why it's up t' us now, sir," said Dranker.

"Aye. That it is."

One of the birds with whom Matowick had been meeting suddenly took to the wing and flapped its way due south over the otters' heads. "Hey, looks like he's sendin' to Salamandastron fer help," Dranker observed hopefully.

"Yeah, mebbe," said Saybrook, "but I wouldn't count on it arrivin' in time t' do us much good. Not with th' weapons 'n' numbers those searats out there've got. No, whatever happens here is in our paws. An' I fer one ain't goin' down without a fight!"

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Matowick's hearing was slowly returning. By the time Altidor was on his way south to Salamandastron and Klystra took off to resume his aerial surveillance, the Gawtrybe captain could hear speech spoken at normal conversational tone, although the constant ringing in his ears shrieked like a siren behind everything else. Perhaps some of this hearing damage would be permanent, but he couldn't worry about that when their very lives might prove as impermanent as the next sunset, or sunrise.

A shrew runner hurried up to Matowick. "Sir, Cap'n Saybrook sent me t' tell ya that - "

"You don't have to scream at me," the squirrel interrupted with bad temper that he immediately regretted.

"Um, yes. Yessir. Um, anyways, Cap'n Saybrook wanted me t' tell you that he 'n' his otters're gonna swim out t' attack th' searat ship."

"What?"

"They mean t' smash through its hull an' sink 'er."

"Why wasn't I informed of this?" Matowick demanded.

"Uh ... that's what I'm a-doin' now, Cap'n sir."

Matowick took a deep breath and forced calm upon himself. Of course it wouldn't have been practical to have a full strategy meeting, between his hearing deficit and the conference he'd been holding with the birds, plus the fact that they had to keep their officers apart as much as possible. And of course Saybrook would want to launch his counterstrike right away to benefit them all as much as he could.

"Okay. Thanks for letting me know," he said to the shrew. "Captain Saybrook is in charge of his own team anyway. If he thinks this is the best thing for it, I'll trust his judgment. I just hope it works ... for all our sakes."

The shrew saluted and took his leave of the Gawtrybe commander. Matowick started back toward some of his comrades; he knew he couldn't call any large gathering, but at least he could tour among the survivors to see for himself just how bad things were. He certainly wasn't about to sit on his tail all alone.

An otter approached him. "Uh, sir, a moment, if y' please ... "

Matowick regarded the newcomer. "Why aren't you down with Captain Saybrook getting ready for the assault?"

"Assault?" The otter looked at him blankly, then held up his paws, pointing at the welts around his wrists. "Um, I'm one o' th' slaves, sir, not a soldier ... "

Matowick shook his head. Yes, he recognized the creature now ... Tourki, he believed his name was. That blast must have scrambled his brains worse than he'd realized. "Yes, how can I help you?"

"Well, this ain't what we signed on for, sir. When we agreed t' come with you, we thought we'd be fightin' searats paw t' paw, in honest battle like back at th' lumber mill."

"Not much honest about those seascum ... as you've seen today."

"Yeah, but ... what're we s'posed t' do now? We can't do anything if they're gonna lob stuff at us that rips us limb from limb or throw us inta th' air! If we'd known it was gonna be like this, we woulda gone with the others t' Redwall."

The otter's mildly complaining tone was starting to grate on Matowick. Sure, the former slaves must have all been frazzled and terrified, and understandably so, but Tourki seemed to be looking for a scapegoat, for somebeast to blame. And if he'd set his sights on Matowick for that purpose, he'd picked the wrong squirrel.

"Well, maybe you should have," the Gawtrybe captain retorted.

The frostiness of this response seemed to take Tourki aback. "Hey there ... I lost some friends here t'day!"

"And you think the rest of us haven't?" Matowick marched past the otter to rejoin some real soldiers. "Blame the searats. Don't blame me."

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The otters sprinted down to the logboats in groups of four at a time in order to avoid putting too many of themselves in catapult range at once. As soon as one team was away with its sheltering canoe between them, the next group would run to the tideline to repeat the procedure. Soon there were nearly a dozen of the logboats being guided out toward the _Sharktail_, propelled by twoscore otters with vengeance on their minds and the fire of battle burning in their eyes.

When they were halfway to the dreadnought, one of the otters on the right flank of the improvised fleet yelled for Saybrook's attention. "Hey, Cap'n! They're comin' out t' meet us!"

Saybrook and many of his companions looked out to where the first otter pointed. Sure enough, three landing boats fully crewed with about twoscore rats apiece were rowing out from behind the _Sharktail_.

"Keep pushing for th' main ship!" Saybrook shouted, and every member of his assault team began stroking its rudderlike tail with renewed vigor. The otter captain shook his head as he swam. The searats couldn't possibly have gotten those landing boats loaded and lowered so quickly in response to the approaching otters. These vermin were up something more than just rowing out to intercept Saybrook's squad.

This quickly proved to be the case, as the searat landing boats stayed to the north of the otters, making straight past them for the shore.

"Well, there's their attack force," Saybrook muttered to his three immediate companions. "Guess they figger they softened us up enuff t' launch a shore assault on our squirrel comrades."

"Should we head back an' help 'em?" one of the others asked.

"Naw. There's still a chance those seascum might send more o' them explosive casks ashore, try 'n' get Matowick's squad trapped 'tween bein' blown up and cut down by those rat fighters. We'll stick with the original plan. We gotta sink that ship if we can. That'll remove half th' threat, an' besides, if those vermin on shore see their mother ship a-sinkin', that might take a lotta th' fight outta their blood."

And so the otters pushed on toward their target while the searats in their landing boats rowed on toward the shore.

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Captain Rindosh saw his shorebound warriors off with immense satisfaction. All the pieces were falling into place ...

"Cap'n, sir," Bodor asked for the second time, voice growing more anxious by the moment, "what're we gonna do 'bout them otters? They're headin' straight fer us!"

Rindosh joined his panicky first mate at the port railing. "Clearly they mean to attack ... prob'ly gonna try 'n' hole us like they did th' landin' boats. But we'd better get some archers an' swordsrats at ev'ry rail port 'n' starboard, in case they try t' board us."

"You jus' sent most o' our best archers ashore ... " Bodor pointed out.

"Where they'll be needed, if it comes to a fight," Rindosh snapped. "There are still over two hundred rats aboard the _Sharktail_, an' near ev'ry one of 'em knows how t' handle a weapon. If those otters try 'n' force their way aboard, they'll be slaughtered. An' they prob'ly know it."

The searat captain gazed out at the approaching logboats. With the otters swimming alongside them to guide and propel the tiny craft, submerged except for their heads, it almost looked from this distance as if a fleet of empty ghost logboats was closing in on the _Sharktail_.

"They'll prob'ly use those boats t' hide b'hind fer shelter when they hafta come up fer air," Rindosh mused aloud. "No way our archers'll be able t' get clear shots at 'em."

"Then what'll we do? That many otters'll be able t' put holes in our hull faster'n we c'n patch 'em!"

"I highly doubt that, Bodor."

"Yeah, well, mebbe they got sumpthin' like stormpowder o' their own, Cap'n. Somethin' they did caused th' _Scorpiontail_ t' sink!"

"True. But we have somethin' the _Scorpiontail_ didn't." A wide, fangy grin spread across Rindosh's face. "It's time we tried out our other secret weapon. Bodor ... make ready the _Butcher Buoy_!"


	13. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

Matowick could see well enough for himself that the searats were putting ashore a sizable attack force north of him. This presented an entirely new set of problems for his battered battalion.

Spread out the way they were now, there was no way they could present a united front to defend themselves against a searat offensive. But, if they grouped themselves into any kind of proper military formation, they'd be easy prey for the catapult-launched blasting kegs. This was putting them between a rock and a hard place, all right, and once again Matowick found himself mentally lauding and cursing the unknown searat captain for his strategic and tactical prowess.

Lieutenant Perricone had by this time managed to get her injured leg adequately splinted, and she came stumping across the sand toward him. "Hear we got some trouble coming our way, Captain?"

Matowick lowered his long glass and nodded. "About a hundred searats landing to the north. Probably set up a skirmish line, unless they decide to just attack us straightaway ... "

"We're in no shape for that," she said, brow creased with worry.

"Not at the moment, no," Matowick agreed. "And we dare not form any of our usual shooting lines. Looks like we'll hafta do this in a more guerilla fashion."

"Right, sir. What do you want me to do?"

He glanced at her splinted leg. "You're staying here, Perri. You'll be no good in any hit and run fighting, which this might turn into pretty fast. Take as many of the injured south that you can, and put any squirrels who can still shoot straight between them and us. If those rats do make

it down this far, drop as many as you can."

"Of course," Perricone said. "I'm still Gawtrybe, even if I can't move too fast right now." She hefted her longbow to emphasize the point.

"Good. Luck be with you, Perri." Matowick jogged north among the scattered remnant of his forces. He observed with silent approval that some of the shrews had been venturing out among the dead one or two at a time to scavenge blades and bows and arrows and slings that would be of no use to their former owners. Half the woodlanders' force might be dead or wounded, but those who could still fight would be very well armed - the shrews had seen to that.

It was a pity none of those killed in that wholly unanticipated searat bombardment could be properly buried, but right now the survivors had all they could do to stay alive themselves. As much as it gnawed at Matowick's sense of duty and honor, his slain comrades would have to be left for the gulls and sandbugs to pick over.

He rounded up the first three uninjured squirrels he encountered and gave them orders to move north as far as they could without directly engaging the searats there. "Here's what we're gonna do - since we can't get together in any large groups, we'll set up a skirmish zone of our own in widely spaced teams of two or three each. A single Gawtrybe squirrel working with a full quiver can take down between ten and twenty enemy beasts, so just a few teams should be able to thin out those searats enough so that we can take care of the rest, even if it comes to paw-to-paw combat."

"Yeah," said a squirrel named Nixalis, glancing around him, "if we can find a sheltered spot to shoot from." The coastal plains, even up here in the higher dunes, were sparse and treeless, with only the very occasional rock outcrop interrupting the vast stretches of sandy soil. Other than that, small scraggly shrubs and tufts of grass and the dunes themselves would be the only cover any ambushers would have.

"Well, do the best you can," Matowick encouraged him. "Maybe rub some sand in your fur, so you don't stick out as much. Just do whatever you can."

"Aye, sir!" The three of them saluted their captain and raced off to meet their destiny with full quivers and the indomitable warrior's spirit of the Gawtrybe.

As he strode across the sand to assemble another uninjured trio to send north, shaking his head in a futile attempt to rid it of the lingering ringing, Matowick came across the otter Tourki with whom he'd exchanged words earlier.

"You say you wanna fight searats, friend?" he asked the former slave. "Well, steel yourself, 'cos you might be getting your chance very soon."

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As the otters swam within archery range of the searat ship, they flipped the logboats over so that they could stay completely under them. The rat archers unleashed several volleys at the approaching attackers, but their arrows stuck harmlessly in the upturned hulls of the capsized logboats. The otters didn't even have to expose themselves to danger when they came up for breath, since they could make use of the air pockets trapped beneath the overturned logboats.

Almost as one, the inverted logboat fleet clunked heavily against the port hull of the _Sharktail_. With their implements of destruction in paw, Saybrook and his fellow otters swam under the wide bulk of the searat dreadnought and set to work boring and hacking at the hull planks.

So intent were they upon their task that none noticed the specially-configured stern doors slowly opening, or the iron monstrosity that came lumbering out into the sea from its rear berth compartment. The _Sharktail_ had just given birth to a nightmare contraption that would catch the otters completely by surprise.

The otter Imbert, working with his prybar toward the stern of the mighty warship, was the first to encounter Rindosh's second secret weapon. Noticing an incongruous movement out of the corner of his eye, Imbert glanced aside, and gasped near fit to drown at what he saw. A dark globe of steel, like a giant pufferfish at full inflation, wobbled through the murky water toward him. Or perhaps it was more like an ungainly undersea hedgehog, for it bristled at every quarter with barbs and blades of every imaginable shape and size. It looked both comical and deadly, an improbable mix of the absurd and the threatening.

Momentarily struck by indecision, Imbert was wondering how to react when two harpoons shot out from the front of the ridiculous iron vehicle, one taking him through the belly and the other impaling him through the chest. Imbert died still debating what he was supposed to do.

Another otter named Dorota looked down from her prybar labors just in time to witness Imbert's slaying. She was part of Saybrook's team that had marched with the Gawtrybe from Salamandastron, and had been with the otter captain in lower Mossflower the previous summer when Urthblood had discovered the searat submarine, so the sudden appearance of this strange underwater craft did not startle her as much as it had Imbert. Giving into her first impulse to seek vengeance for her comrade's murder, Dorota pushed herself toward the bizarre vessel, prybar gripped tightly in her paw.

The _Butcher Buoy_ was in many ways similar to the searat submarine that now resided in the paws of the Mossflower otters with whom the Guosim had left it, but it had its fair share of differences as well. For one thing, it was a much smaller craft, carrying a crew of seven in its cramped confines - four strong rats to crank the propeller shaft, one pilot, and a pair of weapons officers. For another, it was capable of completely submerging, which allowed it to dive under the _Sharktail_ now to engage the otters without fear of scraping its top hatch against the keel of its host ship.

But the biggest difference was in their intended purposes. The captured rat craft had been an unarmed infiltrator, designed to collect slaves or to land an assault team of twenty rat fighters far inland. The aptly named _Butcher Buoy_, by contrast, was little more than a floating weapons platform, its sole mission to mete out death to anybeast unlucky enough to find itself sharing the same waters with this stubby little killing machine.

Dorota came in from the side so as to avoid any more harpoons that might be waiting to shoot out at her. As she closed on the craft, however, she saw that virtually every part of the steel hull bore armaments of some kind or another. And a line of portholes ran down either side of the vessel, peering out from between the various spears and blades, allowing the searats within to look out in all directions. For all Dorota knew, there may have been viewing ports and weapons installed on the bottom of the craft facing downward as well, but she was in no mood to go investigating just now.

The avenging otter chose a spot by one porthole that seemed relatively free of hazards, and began hammering at the glass with her prybar. If she could break the window, she reasoned, they would have no choice but to surface to avoid being flooded, and would thus be rendered incapable of harassing the otters further.

There were two things Dorota hadn't counted on. One was that the portholes were made of a type of clear crystal that was highly resistant to shattering under impact. The other was that the narrow slot in the hull beneath the window she was battering concealed a giant curved blade, like an oversized scythe, mounted on a powerful spring arm held under immense tension that could be released with the single push of a lever from within the _Butcher Buoy_.

Dorota saw a flash of movement below her field of focus, and felt a heavy blow against her midsection, one that rocked her sideways in the water. Although the pain was dull, she could tell from the wrenching of muscle spasms throughout her body that something terrible had happened to her. Glancing down through the blood-clouding water, she could see the wicked curved blade, longer than her tail, that had suddenly sprung from the side of the hull. And she could see the lower half of her body, sliced off cleanly at the waist, drifting slowly down into the darker depths, legs and rudder still twitching in protest.

Dorota's eyes glazed over as the rest of her began to sink as well. Her last thought was the hope that others in her team would have better luck dealing with this bringer of death than she had.

Inside the _Butcher Buoy_, the weaponry officer cranked back the heavy scythe blade so that it might be ready for the next victim who ventured within its range, even as the turnscrew rats slaved and the pilot steered toward more of the enemy.

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Two more otters died, and several others suffered injuries, before Saybrook signaled the remainder of his team to break off the assault. Huddled together with some of his fellows under one of the overturned logboats for a rapidfire emergency strategy conference, Saybrook blew the water off his whiskers in enraged frustration.

"Gah! These searats're unreeling nasty surprises at us faster'n we c'n sort 'em out! Who'da guessed they'd have somethin' like that t' cover their underside? Can't get near it t' cause it damage without gettin' sliced or stabbed, an' it won't leave us alone long enuff t' breach th' big ship's hull like we came out 'ere t' do! We got no choice but to retreat. At least we'll be able t' lend a paw to Matowick an' the rest ashore with fightin' those searats who landed. Pass th' word t' every otter - we're gettin' outta here 'fore we're all chopped inta fishbait!"

And so, sheltering under their capsized logboats to protect themselves from searat arrows, the otters beat a hasty and ignominious retreat back toward shore. The _Butcher Buoy_ didn't pursue them; its speed could not match that of the powerfully-stroking waterbeasts, and besides, it had done its job.

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Up on the deck of the _Sharktail_, Captain Rindosh could not see the blood clouding the waters, since the battles between his attack submersible and the otters took place directly underneath the pirate dreadnought. But he could see well enough the results of those clashes, as the capsized logboats that were nosed up against his ship's port hull suddenly took off toward the shore. A few of his archers loosed shafts at the departing enemy, in hopes of catching a leg or tail that might be sticking out from under their logboat shields, but mostly this was a symbolic sendoff. Clearly, the otters had been dealt a decisive defeat. And now that this threat had been repulsed, it was time for Rindosh to return his full attention to what was happening on the land.

"Haul up the anchors!" the searat captain bellowed. "Turn us about and bring us in closer to shore - close as we were when we attacked th' logboats yesterday! It's time we make those cowards hidin' in th' high dunes shake with our thunder again!"

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Ditching their logboats on the beach above the high tide line, the otters ran in a widely scattered procession back up the sand to rejoin their fellow woodland warriors. Saybrook immediately sought out Matowick. He knew the Gawtrybe captain wanted to keep his officers separated for safety's sake, but Saybrook felt it was important for him to report directly to Matowick since they might be under attack from the fighters to the north at any moment.

The otter commander found his squirrel counterpart redeploying his healthy archers in small teams to form a patchwork defensive line against the rats north of them. Saybrook hunkered down alongside Matowick behind the dunes. "Them blighters still ain't attacked yet, huh?"

The squirrel was surprised to see the otters back so soon. "What are you doing here, Saybrook?"

As briefly as he could, Saybrook described their losses under the onslaught of the armored attack craft. Matowick's eyes went wide with amazed horror.

"Fur and damnation! Is there anything those murderous seascum _don't_ have?"

"They got enuff, an' that's for shore." Saybrook poked his head up to take in the searat ship. "Hey! What're they up ta now?"

The _Sharktail_ had by this time pulled up her anchor and turned her prow out to sea. At first it looked like the dreadnought was about to sail away, leaving the shore party behind, but it soon became apparent that she was turning in a wide circle that would leave her catapult-laden port side once more facing the coast.

"They're maneuverin' t' get themselves closer," Saybrook observed.

"And that can only mean one thing," Matowick concluded through clenched teeth. "They're gonna bombard us again, and they're moving inshore so their catapults can hit us on this high ground."

"Well, we could always confound 'em an' all rush back t' th' waterline," Saybrook mused.

Matowick shook his head. "Then those rats who're already ashore could move down and engage us, leaving us pinned between them and the water - no problem for you otters, but a bit of a pickle for us squirrels and shrews."

"Aye, that's true. But d' you really think they'll try another bombardment with that smoke 'n' thunder stuff? Spread all over th' way we are now, they'd be lucky t' hit one or two o' us with each shot."

"We don't know how much of that stuff they have aboard," Matowick pointed out. "Could be they have enough in their hold to pulverize every step of this beach, from the tideline to the foothills."

"Yeah, but they can't launch more'n four of 'em at a time. That gives us time t' scatter before each incomin' salvo."

"Problem is, we've got a lot of wounded who can't move that fast, and those seavermin must know it. This is just like back at the lumber mill ... only this time, if those of us who're still fit run away to try and draw those searats after us, the ones who've landed north of us will sweep down through here and slit the throats of every injured beast we leave behind."

"Unless we flee north."

Matowick stared at his otter companion. "You mean, try to make a run around them through the foothills and along the shore, so they'll be split between going after us and the injured ... "

"Not 'xactly what I had in mind, Matty matey. Not go around 'em - go through 'em!" Saybrook smacked a fist against his open paw. "A full frontal attack with all we got. Hit 'em fast an' hit 'em hard, wipe 'em out 'fore they know what's smashed into 'em."

"That'd be risky. We'd lose a lot of beasts ... "

"Mebbe. But my lads 'n' lasses are game if you are. We got a lot of our blood spilled out under that ship jus' now, an' we're up fer spillin' a little searat blood t' return th' favor. Way I figger it, they got us boxed in to th' north an' to th' west, an' there's mountains to our east. Looks like they're tryin' to force us south ... which'd leave our wounded helpless, like you said, since we'd hafta leave 'em behind. Prob'ly wouldn't be expectin' us t' make a drive north, right inta their midst ... which is th' best reason why it might work. We'll catch 'em completely by surprise. An' here's another thing: those rats out on their ship won't be able t' fling their explodin' kegs at us if we're grapplin' paw t' paw an' nose t' nose with their soldiers ashore ... they'd end up killin' as many of their own as they would of us."

"Knowing those barbarians, I don't know if that'd stay their paw any."

Saybrook threw another glance seaward. "Yah, well, whatever ye're gonna do, Matt, y' gotta make up yer mind sharpish, 'cos that ship's almost completely 'round, an' she'll soon be droppin' anchor again an' lobbin' those fire boomers our way."

Matowick looked up at the clouds. It was hard to judge through the overcast blanket of gray, but he supposed the sun was about halfway down the sky - still too much daylight left to wait for a night assault on the searat positions. Of course, it made sense that the searat captain would want to squeeze in at least one more bombardment while it was still light, even if their intended targets were widely dispersed - for all its savage, all-obliterating ferocity, this fearsome new weapon would be rendered even less effective by the dark than his own squirrels' bows and arrows would be. Whichever direction they chose, they would have to be on the move almost at once.

North, or south? One thing was certain: the injured beasts wouldn't be going either of those ways ... which gave Matowick at least one concrete course of action to pursue immediately. "Hold that thought, Captain," the squirrel told Saybrook, then sprinted across the sand behind the dunes as fast as his legs could carry him, footpaws kicking up sprays and tail switching furiously.

"Perri!" he said breathlessly, skidding up to his hobbled lieutenant. "The searats are repositioning their ship for another bombardment, and they'll be able to hit up here behind these dunes. Use your shrew runners to spread the word for every injured beast who can still walk to get up into the higher foothills, as far up into the mountains as you can. Keep yourselves scattered as you go, so that they won't be tempted to target you, and hopefully you'll be okay."

"You don't think those rats to the north might try a flanking move of their own through the foothills to the east?" Perricone worried.

Matowick shot a glance skyward, where his falcon scout still circled high overhead. "I'm counting on Klystra to warn me at once if they try anything like that. You should be safe for now. Or as safe as any of us can be on this coastland."

"And where will you go, sir?"

"Either north or south - I haven't decided yet. Saybrook thinks we should attack to the north in an all-out offensive, and I'm leaning that way myself. They'd not be expecting it, and I've already got a lot of our archers deployed on that front, so the work's half-done. Just look to the injured, Perri, and save as many of yourselves as you can."

"Aye, Captain. And good fortunes to you, in battle or in flight." Even as Matowick rushed off to rejoin Saybrook, Perricone was already dispatching shrews to spread word of the evacuation, stumping across the sandy ground on her splinted leg.

North or south? The debate was still raging in his head when, halfway back to Saybrook, Klystra dropped out of the sky and landed in front of him. "What is it, friend?" the squirrel asked of the falcon.

"Searats digging in to north," the raptor reported, "but no sign of moving. Rats staying put."

"We're thinking of attacking," Matowick informed Klystra, "and if we do, we'll need your help to pinpoint their concentrations and ambush teams. How do things look to the south?"

"No rats south. But half day, day march, beach very narrow. No wider than this." Klystra spread his wings to demonstrate. "Mountain face steep, right up to sea. Not much room to walk."

"So that's their game!" Matowick bit off. "By landing their shore party to the north, they were trying to drive us south to where the beach narrows. We'd be sitting ducks ... um, no offense."

"No offense, bushtail," Klystra said amiably ... for a raptor.

"That decides things for us. Klystra, go scout those searat positions. I'm going to start assembling our troops for the assault. I'll meet you to the north with Captain Saybrook for your report. Good luck!"

Klystra took off, and so did Matowick, racing toward Saybrook once more. The few squirrels and shrews he passed on the way received his shouted notification of the attack plans, and themselves hastened to tell others. Slowly, the scattered army of the Badger Lord mobilized for their valiant last stand.

And on Matowick ran, fully expecting at any moment to hear the thunderous weaponry of the searats resuming its bone-shaking, ear-shattering punishment of their woodland enemy.

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Rindosh studied his adversaries through his long glass. All around him, the deck of the _Sharktail_ bustled with activity as crewrats trimmed sails, lowered anchors and readied the catapults for a renewed volley of stormpowder casks farther inland.

Bodor stepped up onto the command deck to join Rindosh. "Whatcha see, Cap'n?"

"A lot of those woodlanders look t' be fleein' to higher ground. But it's mostly th' injured, by th' look of it - lots of 'em are bandaged 'n' splinted, leanin' on each other fer support ... see a few that're even bein' carried on makeshift litters, or dragged on blankets. We must've done 'em more damage than I realized."

"Well, ain't they gettin' outta range?" the first mate worried. "We won't be able t' hit 'em all if they get up inta them foothills ... "

"Oh, we'll hit 'em, all right - with swords and arrows. Those're th' wounded who're tryin' t' escape. Plenty o' time t' go after 'em an' clean 'em up ... after we've taken care o' the able-bodied fighters." Rindosh lowered his spyglass a fraction. "Who're still hidin' b'hind those dunes. As if that's gonna protect 'em!"

A cry from the starboard deck caught Rindosh's attention. "_Butcher Buoy_, surfacin'!" The searat captain folded his telescope and went down to the seaward-facing railing.

The stubby submersible bobbed and pitched alongside the dreadnought. Thapa, one of the two weapons officers aboard, emerged from the wavewashed top of the iron vessel, paws braced against the raised hatch portal. "Hey, Cap'n! You want we should come back aboard?"

Rindosh shook his head emphatically, waving his paw for good measure so that the rat in the water below wouldn't mistake his meaning. "Nay, Thapa! Once we start bombardin' 'em again, those otters might just get desperate 'nuff t' launch another attack! Keep th' _Butcher Buoy_ out circlin' 'round an' under th' _Sharktail_ on patrol. We might still need ya!"

"Aye aye, Cap'n!" Thapa flashed a paws-up sign and disappeared back inside his attack craft, dogging the waterproof hatch tightly. The _Butcher Buoy_ sank beneath the winter waves once more, invisibly circling its mother ship like a sluggish, hungry shark.

Rindosh hastened over to the port side to oversee things there. "We're ready t' hit 'em again, Cap'n!" Bodor announced from alongside one of the catapult platforms. "Y' want we should fire some more wine casks fer target measurin'?"

"No need," Rindosh replied. "As long as th' gunners are confident they're aimed in th' general vicinity of those higher dunes, that'll do. Remember, we wanna get 'em runnin' south, where we can trap 'em on th' narrow strand of beach, up against th' rockface. This salvo's just t' get 'em movin' - any of 'em we kill will just be a nice li'l bonus!"


	14. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

By the time the first of the searats' powderkegs hit the high dunes, exploding in a geyser of smoke, flame and sand, most of the battle-ready squirrels, otters and shrews were already well north of that position, on their way to engage the rat fighters who were on shore.

Matowick hit the ground with the first explosion, even though it was a good way behind him. After what they'd endured in the initial bombardment earlier that afternoon, the woodlanders were understandably skittish about this fearsome new weapon. The Gawtrybe captain kept his belly pressed to the sand and paws over his ears until the fourth blast, then raised himself, glancing backward as he swiped the clinging grains from his tunic.

The pattern of this salvo was far more uneven than the earlier one had been. Two of the four kegs looked to have hit on the shoreward side of the protective dunes, where they couldn't have caused harm to anybeast. And none seemed to have landed far enough inland to cause the fleeing wounded any trouble, which relieved Matowick no end. Of course, so much of the territory directly south of him was now obscured by expanding clouds of dust and smoke that it was impossible to be absolutely certain of any of this.

A junior otter who'd been marching with Matowick looked backward as well. "Looks like that might've caught some o' our rearguard," the waterbeast observed ruefully.

"Maybe," Matowick said. "But they'll hafta look to themselves, I'm afraid. We've got to engage those rats as soon as we can - it might be a rough fight, but that's the one place we can be fairly sure we'll be safe from those exploding kegs."

They got underway once more, but hadn't gone very far when a new round of explosions came from behind them. This time Matowick forced himself to keep going, although he stayed to a low crouch and kept his paws firmly over his ears. He was beginning to wonder whether his hearing would ever return to normal again.

A short way on, he began to encounter some of the forward Gawtrybe sent ahead earlier. They were still some distance from the searat positions, he was sure, but probably close enough that the captain aboard the ship would not dare to use his imprecise, catapult-fired weapons for fear of hitting his own forces ... if he was even aware that the woodlanders were this far north, which Matowick hoped he'd been able to keep a secret.

Whether or not that was the case, they could proceed no further without a meeting of the commanders. Klystra came winging out of the sky, and soon the falcon was giving his latest surveillance report to Matowick, Saybrook and Lieutenant Tardo, acting commander of the shrews. The bird sketched his observations in the sand with a talon so that the ground creatures could formulate an attack strategy.

When Klystra was finished, Saybrook studied the crude diagram and wrinkled his snout in perplexion. "What? That ain't no proper defensive line!"

"No, it's not." Matowick grinned hungrily. "They're dug in just enough to hold us off and turn us back if we tried to come up this way. They only came ashore to try and make us go south, and then they'd chase after us to get us bottled up on that narrow beach. They're thinking that their current position is just temporary. They're not expecting us to make our stand here - and they certainly aren't prepared to defend against an all-out offensive!"

Matowick looked into the faces of his fellow officers. "Gentlebeasts - it's payback time!"

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The red squirrels and the dark otters rubbed as much sand into their fur as they could for camouflage, then set out to encircle their searat enemy. The lighter-colored shrews blended against the sand well enough naturally that they didn't need such measures to disguise themselves.

All three species were mixed together among the attackers, so that the Gawtrybe archers and otter slingers could provide covering fire for the shorter shrews, who were more inclined to rush in with shortswords flashing, even though their own ranks included a number of archers and slingers as well. For that matter, many of Saybrook's otters were hankering to get their paws around searat necks and wet their javelins in the seavermins' blood in close combat, out of frustration for their defeat out under the _Sharktail_. Seldom had there been a more bloodthirsty or retribution-minded group of woodlanders. And their contained battle lust was about to be unleashed upon the unsuspecting rats.

At the last minute, some of the searat lookouts noticed small knots of the woodland warriors creeping stealthily among the dunes to either side of their encampment, but by then it was too late. Even as the alarm was raised, the storm of Urthblood's fighters broke over them in all its battle-hardened fury.

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"Somethin's ... somethin's not right," Rindosh muttered to himself as he scanned the shore through his long glass.

The second salvo had just concluded, and a pall of dust and smoke hung over the tortured beach. Despite the limited visibility, the searat captain had fully expected to see a scattered stream of shellshocked woodlanders fleeing south to escape the hellacious bombardment, with others perhaps running down to the safety of the waterline as the otters had done previously. But there was no sign of the enemy anywhere they should have been.

Could it be that this second bombardment had caught them so completely by surprise that they'd been largely trapped and annihilated? Rindosh dared not hope. Hidden behind the dunes as they'd been, it was hard to get any exact measure of their remaining strength, state or position. All he'd had were scant glimpses of their movements from behind the rises, enough to convince him they must have all been in that region of the coastland. Either they'd been a lot worse off than they'd let on, or else ...

"I'm goin' topside," he announced to everyrat around him, and promptly scaled the rigging, spyglass tucked in his sash. When he reached the crow's nest, he shouldered aside the lookout there and scanned the beaches anew from his elevated vantage.

No trace of the woodlanders where he expected them to be - not south of the target area, and not down by their neglected logboats. Perhaps all the able-bodied squirrels, shrews and otters had, at the first sign of the renewed bombardment, joined the injured in their exodus up into the foothills. Not what Rindosh wanted, nor what he had expected of the brave warriors who had so brazenly dared him to attack with their open displays of challenge. Maybe he'd underestimated the demoralizing effect his stormpowder and the Butcher Buoy would have on them. But with the curtain of dust cutting off his vision, it was impossible to see what was going on higher up inland.

Rindosh swung his long glass north to give a cursory glance to his shore party there ... and stiffened in shock. In the magnified field of his telescope, he saw squirrel and rat archers trading shafts, otters clashing with his fighters at close quarters with swinging slings and stabbing javelins, and shrews slashing and hacking their way through the encampment. The woodlanders appeared to nearly equal the searats in number, and although the battle had clearly only just begun, creatures of both sides had already fallen.

The searat captain made it back down to the deck in record time. "Bodor! They're attackin' our shore party in full force!" he roared, seeking out his first mate. "Get two more landing teams assembled 'n' off at once. They've chosen their time, an' now we can wipe 'em out! They've committed all their remainin' strength t' this offensive - they ain't runnin' anymore! Now we've got 'em where we can finish 'em off!"

"But, Cap'n! By th' time our reinforcements reach shore, won't th' battle be over, one way or th' other?"

"It will if y' jus' stand there jabberin'!" Rindosh snarled. "Them's battle-hardened fightin' beasts, on both sides. They'll clash fer hours if need be, 'til one side or th' other's overcome. What we gotta do now is make sure it's not our mateys who end up on th' losin' side - so get those landin' boats away!"

"Aye, sir! Right away, Cap'n sir!"

While the other crewrats hastened to carry out his bidding, Rindosh leaned against the port railing, contemplating the situation. He should have expected such a brash move from the same warriors who'd attacked and destroyed the lumber mill and the _Scorpiontail_. Of course they wouldn't run away, not if there was a chance to fight. These were Urthblood's fanatical soldiers, and they would die fighting.

Which was just what Rindosh had in mind.

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When the battle started, Matowick and his fellow Gawtrybe stayed toward the outside of the fighting, keeping the rat archers occupied with an exchange of arrows that was fast and furious. This allowed the shrews and otters who craved paw to paw combat to wade in and grapple with their searat foes on a more intimate level. Most of the otters were able to strike down one or two rats apiece before getting bogged down in more prolonged duels, and this helped to even out the number of combatants on each side.

Before long, however, the clashing beasts melded into a confused melee in which it was difficult to pick out friend from foe. The Gawtrybe were left no choice but to abandon their sniping and charge into the battle themselves. Some used their longbows as a combination of club and spear, expertly wielding the carved wood staves to ward off blade swings and spear thrusts, cracking skulls and jabbing bellies with the hardened bows. Others cast aside their traditional weaponry in favor of the blades they'd brought along from Salamandastron, brandishing their swords and long knives with a savage fury and squirrel quickness that few of the searats could match.

But the searats were not easily overcome. Most were strong and skilled fighters, and if the woodlanders wanted retribution over the stormpowder barrage and the Butcher Buoy's treatment of the otters, then the searats felt the same way about the attack on their lumber base, and the destruction of the _Scorpiontai_l. And both factions also shared a sense of desperation; Urthblood's forces had committed all the able-bodied troops left to them to this engagement, while the nearest searat reinforcements were out on the _Sharktail_ and would take some time to arrive, even if they were dispatched at once. This was the final stand for the woodlanders, while the rats knew all too well that they were fighting for their very lives. As such, both sides gave it everything they had, and then some.

It was not quite a stalemate, and hardly a standstill. The searats had been attacked from three sides at once, and any attempt to retreat north would only result in the woodlanders pursuing them and cutting them down. Creatures were dying, but not at the same rate as in the opening moments of the engagement. Trained warriors had found each other and paired off in a confusion of individual beast-to-beast duels. It was almost as if an equilibrium of sorts had been achieved there on the gray beach under the somber winter afternoon sky, the opposing adversaries locked in a furious, adrenaline-charged struggle that would last until their final reserves of strength ran dry.

Or until the balance was tipped one way or the other.

Saybrook and Matowick found themselves back-to-back in the thick of the battle, each squared off against a burly swordsrat on either side. The otter spared a glance up from his opponent to look seaward for a heartbeat, and he didn't like what he saw.

"Don't look now, Matt, but they're sendin' more o' these wavescum our way!"

Both rats had noticed the pair of approaching, heavily-crewed landing boats as well, and grinned evilly. Their relief was on the way, and the woodlanders would have little hope of survival once the reinforcements joined the fray. But Matowick hardly let the news discourage him. On the contrary, he scowled at his rat opponent with a rictus of bloodcurdling determination.

"Then we'll just hafta kill all these ugly rotfaces before their friends arrive, eh, Saybrook?"

"Aye aye t' that, Matty matey!"

And so Saybrook, with a double-fisted grip on his trusty javelin, and Matowick, wielding a blade in each clenched paw, lit into their foerats with a renewed sense of purpose, striving to defeat these enemies before the next wave set foot upon the shore.

The balance of this battle was indeed about to be tipped dramatically ... but in a way that none of the beasts grappling on the beach could scarcely have imagined.

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The landing boats were halfway to shore. Rindosh had returned to the crow's nest, from where he could follow the progress of the battle in the dunes, and would have a clear view of the reinforcements joining the fight. It was a sight to which he looked forward with great anticipation.

With all his concentration focused upon the shore, his world reduced to the circular field of vision seen through his long glass, it was hardly surprising that he failed to notice the growing cloud in the sky bearing down on the _Sharktail_ from the direction of Salamandastron.

Down on deck, however, many eyes had picked up on this sight. With the dunes hiding most of the distant fighting ashore and not much else of interest to peer at, the waiting deckrats naturally cast their gazes about from land to sea to sky and back again ... and thus it was that they became the first to spot their approaching doom.

"Hey, get a load o' that crazy flock o' seagulls!" Gumbs the boson elbowed First Mate Bodor in the ribs. "Never seen so many of 'em flyin' t'gether like that b'fore ... "

Bodor followed the boson's gaze, although the birds weren't hard to miss, and they were getting closer by the moment. "Are y' shore that's what they are?"

"What else could they be? No other birds that fly over th' sea in that number ... " Gumbs squinted at the nearing flock. "But ... what's that glintin' I sees?"

"Huh? Whatcha mean, Gumbsy?"

"Looks like there's a glittering or sparkle to 'em ... like th' sun's bouncin' off sumpthin' shiny ... "

"Don't be daft! Th' sun ain't shinin' - it's as cloudy a day as ever there was!"

"Yeah, well, look fer yerself, if y' don't berlieve me!"

Bodor squinted hard at the living cloud. "Y' know, you ... you may be ... I think ye're right, Gumbsy. Now what in sea 'n' scurvy could them feathersacks be carryin' that'd do that? 'Specially on a day that's got no sun?"

Gumbs rubbed his paws together, licking his chops. "Well, who cares? I ain't tasted roast seagull since we was halfway through this voyage, an' here come enuff meat on th' wing t' keep us all fed inta next season! Get some o' yer bowrats ready, Bodor matey! This'll be like shootin' fish in a barrel!"

"Can't. We sent all our archers ashore, 'member?" Bodor scowled skyward, and not just at the idea of a missed opportunity to fatten their bellies and their larders. "Them gulls definitely ain't actin' like any I seen before. An' they're makin' straight fer us, by th' look of it." He craned his head back and cupped his paws to his mouth. "'ey, Cap'n!" he shouted up to the crow's nest. "Check it out, to th' south!"

Rindosh didn't need Bodor's alarm; by this time the young lookout rat squeezed into the mast-top observation platform with him had also noticed the approaching flock, and had called it to his captain's attention, even though it meant intruding on Rindosh's almost trancelike study of the events on shore.

The searat captain lowered his long glass and followed the young lookout's pointing claw, blinking to adjust his vision from one-eyed magnified sight to normal. In a matter of heartbeats he assessed the large group of birds, their formation, their altitude and speed and heading, and the mysterious loads clutched under them in their webbed talons. Everything about this unlikely tableau screamed at him: _Wrong! This is very wrong!_ But on a conscious level, he could not begin to imagine what it meant.

"An attack?" he muttered to himself. But if so, what kind of attack? What was the shape of this danger? Seagulls had never before attacked any searat vessel in large, organized numbers. There was no precedent, and hence, no procedure to follow, and no way to know what to even expect.

As he watched, the gulls began to climb, arcing upward in a flight path that would carry them directly over the _Sharktail_, but at a height that would prevent archers from sniping at them. Of course, none of the searat archers were aboard the pirate dreadnought presently, but these gulls had no way of knowing that. It never occurred to Rindosh that the birds might have some other reason for putting themselves so high above his ship.

In fact, it had barely occurred to him that he held in his claws a device which might shed some light on the matter. Remembering the long glass, Rindosh raised the eyepiece to his eye and trained the telescope on the birds.

When he brought it into proper focus, Rindosh almost dropped the long glass. It wasn't just the obviously-manufactured glass vessels of fluid that the gulls carried slung under their flapping forms, as startling as those were. No, it was the fact that they followed the lead of a giant golden eagle who flew at their forefront.

One of Urthblood's birds ...

Rindosh knew something terrible was about to happen - he just didn't have a clue what it would be.

And then they were over the _Sharktail_, and the glass globes rained from the sky, smashing against the upper masts and yards and booms, soaking the sails and rigging with their contents. A few of the spheres bounced off the ropes and canvas to shatter against the deck below or be harmlessly deflected into the waters to port or starboard, but most found their target.

The young lookout sniffed. "It's ... it's oil, Cap'n, ain't it?"

The worst possible thing.

Rindosh let the long glass fall from his claws as he vaulted over the side of the crow's nest like a squirrel, landed on the oil-soaked rigging where he nearly lost his grip, and propelled himself downward like a big furry spider, making the fastest descent in the history of searats.

Two more objects fell from the sky - not glass globes, but lit lamps filled with oil of their own. Both smashed open against the hardwood spars, and within moments sheets of flame were rippling their way across the majestic sails, transforming them into blazing monuments of destruction against the gray winter sea and sky.

The lookout never had a chance. Abandoned by his captain without so much as a word of warning, the young rat found himself engulfed in flames, his fur and clothes burning savagely. He knew his only chance would be to jump into the sea, so he blindly climbed up onto the edge of the flaming crow's nest and launched himself toward the port side of the _Sharktail_, seeking to make a high dive into the water.

Unfortunately, the pirate dreadnought was an immense vessel ... and a wide one. Not even the lookout's best terror-fueled effort was enough to carry him past the edge of the deck.

The flaming rat hit the planks mere paces from Rindosh, who had only just set his feet on the momentary safety of the main deck. The searat captain blew out a sigh of relief at the near miss, then his heart caught in his throat.

The ill-fated lookout rat had landed among the powder casks left over from the latest salvo ... and his body was still on fire. Even as Rindosh watched, the flames spread to several of the kegs.

"Powder fire!" he screamed, turning to run. "Powder - "

One of the casks blew, and Rindosh found himself flying through the air aftward. This rough treatment was the only thing that spared him from immediate death, because once one keg went, they all did.

Two of the catapults and their sliding platforms were completely destroyed in the ensuing chain-reaction explosion, and the other two hopelessly damaged. Railing and deck were ripped away, the nearby yards and booms smashed into toothpicks, and the rigging left loosely flailing like angry smoking rope serpents. Rats by the dozen were hurled into the water, some still alive but most not.

In spite of this horrendous calamity, the _Sharktail_ might still have survived; most of the explosion damage was confined to the top deck, and did not threaten the integrity of the ship. But there was more of the stormpowder stored belowdecks - much more. If these fires were not extinguished ...

Gumbs was shaking Rindosh by the collar to bring him back to his senses. The captain slapped his boson's paws away from him. "Where's Bodor?"

"Blown over th' side, Cap'n. Think 'ee's dead, sir."

Rindosh struggled to his feet, suffering from a heady dose of his own medicine; his ears were ringing as badly as Matowick's had at any time that day, and his back, legs and tail had been painfully singed by the very explosion that had thrown him clear of the worst of the destruction. The sails and masts directly overhead blazed out of control. Across the deck on the starboard side, another glass globe shattered, spraying several rats. Oddly, there was smoke but no flame, and the rats who'd been doused fell to the deck clutching at themselves and shrieking in agony, their fur steaming. Rindosh didn't stop to puzzle over this now.

"What'll we do now, Cap'n?" Gumbs demanded in panic. "Abandon ship?"

"Not yet." Rindosh glanced aft. Because fire was such a danger to any ship bearing the stormpowder, such dreadnoughts had had fire fighting equipment installed. Seawater could be paw-pumped through linen hoses and brass nozzles to extinguish any fire that broke out on deck. The _Sharktail_ had two such pump-hose stations, one fore and one aft. The searat captain could not see the condition of the forward pump or whether it had occurred to anyrat to use it, but the aft station stood undamaged before him. It would be a long shot, but no captain would willingly let his ship go down if there was anything that could be done to save it.

Rindosh grabbed Gumbs by the arm and dragged the boson toward the aft deck. "C'mon! There may still be a chance!"


	15. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

The _Sharktail_ was not the gulls' only target.

Even as the formidable sails of red, black and green disappeared beneath rippling sheets of yellow-orange flame, part of the seagull squadron broke away from the main formation and zeroed in on the pair of tightly-packed searat landing boats. The two smaller craft were still some way from the safety of shore, and the rats aboard had no choice but to dive over the sides into the chilly winter sea or stand their ground and let the gulls do their worst. Most of the seavermin were so shocked by the conflagration on the _Sharktail_ that they were too stupefied to take any action at all.

More glass globes rained down upon the two landing boats, and their effect was both immediate and horrible. The liquid-filled spheres smashed open against the skulls of hapless rats, or upon swords and spears raised in futile attempts to fend them off. This time, however, fully half the glass globes contained not the highly flammable oil but a solution far more terrifying. When these wax-lined glass bubbles burst, the released fluid burned the fur and flesh off of the rats who were showered with it. Many were instantly blinded and dozens fell to the bottom of the boats, writhing and screaming in torment as the reagent dissolved their sinew and bones into caustic vapors. Even those not splashed with the burning liquid were sickened by the poisonous fumes.

Quite a bit of the corrosive substance dripped down onto the floors of the landing boats, where it immediately began to eat through the wood hull planks, doing a far more thorough and effective job than any otter's awl.

And then the lit lamps fell into the midst of the panicked confusion that had broken out on each boat, and the rats who had escaped the chemical burns found themselves consumed in flames. The two craft were transformed into boats of death, and only those few who threw themselves into the water survived; every other rat aboard the landing boats perished in an impossibly brief span of time.

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"Work th' pump!" Rindosh yelled at Gumbs as the searat captain grabbed the brass nozzle from its holder and began unreeling the linen hose, then moved across the deck a few paces to where he would have a clear shot at spraying the seawater up into the burning canvas sails. His back was to the boson when Rindosh heard a strangely muted shattering sound from behind him. Gumbs gave a grunt of surprise which became a perplexed moan, and within the space of a few heartbeats turned into a claws-on-chalk shriek that made Rindosh's fur stand on end.

Rindosh turned around. Gumbs had dropped to his knees with his paws up to his face, and both the boson and the deck around him smoked and steamed furiously, even though there was not a lick of flame to be seen anywhere in the immediate vicinity. Shards from a burst glass globe littered the deck around the stricken rat, but since nothing had caught fire, Rindosh assumed that it could not be that bad.

"Gumbs, matey!" the searat captain tried to shout through the boson's strangled screams. "Time's a-wastin'! Shake off whatever's ailin' you an' get on them pumps! I need ya, Gumbs! Gumbs!"

Gumbs pitched forward face-down onto the deck, legs and tail jerking uncontrollably. Rindosh had witnessed enough violence and murder during his seasons to recognize death throes when he saw them. But this did not make sense. There had been no fire. How could Gumbs be dead?

Putting down the nozzle, Rindosh crept toward the pumping apparatus, which still smoldered and steamed. "Gumbs! What's wrong, matey? What's happened to ya?" He gave the prone boson a couple of kicks in the side, this abuse adding to the spasms convulsing Gumb's tortured form.

Rindosh became aware then that his footpaws were burning like they were on fire where his unshod feet had come into contact with smoking splotches of the spilled fluid. At first he thought he'd cut them on shards of the broken glass, but a glance down showed that it was the liquid residue itself that blistered his flesh. Wincing from the pain, he crouched and rolled Gumbs over onto his back.

The boson's face was gone. The empty eye sockets stared sightlessly up at him from a skull that had been washed clean of flesh and muscle. Even the very bone seemed to be melting; as Rindosh watched, uncomprehending, part of the snout collapsed in on itself.

Rindosh stood and backed away in horror. Nothing in his pirate's career had girded him for anything like this. If King Tratton had unleashed something terrible upon the lands with the stormpowder, it appeared that Urthblood was prepared to answer in kind with nightmarish new weapons of his own.

This train of thought made Rindosh look up from Gumbs toward the pumping station. The equipment there had taken the brunt of this vitriolic assault, and the corrosive liquid had eaten through the coil of linen hose. The firefighting apparatus was now useless.

Ignoring his burning footpaws and the acrid fumes assailing his nose and eyes, Rindosh cupped his paws to his mouth. "Abandon ship! Abandon ship!" he yelled to anyrat who could hear him. As much as it tore him up inside, he could no longer deny that the _Sharktail_ was lost.

No sooner had he issued the evacuation order than Rindosh heard a sharp crack above him. A flaming spar, weakened by fire and by the shock of the stormpowder explosions, gave way and fell across the searat captain, pinning him to the deck under an immovable weight of fiery wood and canvas. The burning of his footclaws was now nothing compared to the flames which quickly consumed his fur and clothes as he lay helpless, trapped by the wreckage of his own sea power.

In a cruel twist of fate, Rindosh's head and chest were left clear, so that even as he burned to death he could gaze up through the tears of his pain at the sails and masts and riggings that still blazed above him. In time, the fire would reach the stormpowder stores below, and then the _Sharktail_ would be torn apart from the inside out, but her captain would be long dead by that time. For now, however, Rindosh had a ringside seat as he watched his ship die.

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On the beach, all fighting had come to a standstill.

Those among the scuffling rats, squirrels, otters and shrews who failed to notice when the _Sharktail_ went up in flames could not help but hear the explosions of the stormpowder casks. Within moments, every surviving searat and woodlander had disengaged from one another and stepped back to stare seaward in shocked amazement. Saybrook and Matowick's forces were too stunned to voice shouts of exultation or victory, while the searats were utterly at a loss. A hushed silence fell over the scene of their bloody battle, a stillness that belied the tumult that had reigned here moments before.

As they watched, the landing boats too went up in flames under the seagulls' incendiary assault. Many of the searats' hearts sank into their footpaws as they realized there would be no reinforcements, no rescue from these fanatical woodlanders who were determined to fight to the death. Thoughts of surrender flashed through the minds of many of the rodents, but before any could voice such ideas, the battle took yet another turn.

Altidor the eagle came hurtling in against the outer ring of combatants. The mighty raptor clutched a sharp javelin in each talon (who knew where he had gotten them from?) and impaled two rats who stood on the fringes of the frozen battle. Dozens of seagulls who'd dropped their payloads over the searat boats now joined Altidor in harassing the shorebound seavermin on all sides.

Altidor swooped over the heads of friend and foe alike, landing in the center of the combat zone where Matowick and Saybrook stood. "No survivors!" the eagle cried. "No survivors! Urthblood says Tratton must not learn of his alliance with the seagulls. There can be no witnesses. Every rat must die!"

And then, to emphasize the point, Altidor turned on the nearest rat and, deftly disarming him of his spear, drove him to the ground, deadly curved beak stabbing at eyes and throat.

All around, the battle resumed with a vengeance as woodlanders and gulls joined forces against the remaining searats.

Saybrook looked to the rat he'd previously been duelling, giving an apologetic shrug as he raised his javelin for a killing thrust. "Sorry, mate, but orders is orders ... "

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The twilight coastlands were free of rats. Not a single one had survived the battle with Urthblood's forces, once Altidor made it known that the Badger Lord wanted every one of them slain.

The only momentary pause in the slaughter came when the flames ravaging the _Sharktail_ finally found their way to the main stormpowder magazine far belowdecks. If the earlier explosions had been enough to get the attention of everybeast on shore, this one positively rocked them on their footpaws, roaring in their ears like the loudest thunderclap any of them had ever heard. The pirate dreadnought actually lifted out of the water, the entire ship pointed prow-downward as an immense fireball obliterated the vessel's stern. When the ship splashed down again from her temporary flight, she began to sink almost at once, the rampant flames extinguished in a vast steaming sizzle as the _Sharktail_ disappeared stern-first beneath the waves.

This latest nautical spectacle of destruction thus concluded, the woodlanders returned their attention to the cleanup of their doomed enemy.

But the job was hardly completed with the slaying of the last rat from the shore party. Scores more of the searats had had time to abandon both the _Sharktail_ and the ill-fated landing boats before those craft were irretrievably lost. Now those crewrats and pirate fighters had to choose between striking out for shore or being swallowed by the unforgiving sea. A few drowned on the way, not being the most accomplished of swimmers, but those who reached the tideline found the waiting woodlanders no more forgiving than the cruel winter main. Some begged and pleaded for mercy on their knees, while others used their last reserves of strength to charge their foe with unsheathed cutlass or raised spear, but all were met the same - with Gawtrybe shaft, otter sling and javelin or shrew shortsword. Soon the water's edge was littered with lifeless rat corpses, staining the sand and water red.

It was a merciless massacre by Urthblood's forces, but there was not a beast among them who had not lost friends to the searats over the last few days. The fact that their badger master had ordered this total annihilation made it their duty, but few indeed among the woodland warriors harbored any qualms or reservations as they carried out Urthblood's instructions.

With the coming of night, fires were lit. Some were pyres for the disposal of the slain rats, others were bonfires by which the survivors dug a large grave for their own dead. It was a relief that they would not have to leave their fallen comrades lying out to have their bones picked over by seabirds, sand crabs and shore insects. Altidor and Klystra had seen no sign of any other searat sails on the horizon during their last surveillance flights just before nightfall, so it was deemed safe to light up the coastal plain.

Every iota of that illumination was needed for the recovery of those killed in the stormpowder bombardments. Holding torches low to the sand, the shrews and squirrels and otters scoured that pulverized stretch of beach to retrieve what they could. There were many scraps of flesh, along with disembodied paws, tails and heads, lying amongst other more-or-less intact bodies. All was collected and added to the burial pit, and although some bits and pieces were undoubtedly missed, the searchers made the most thorough job of it they could. It was some slight comfort and burden lifted from their hearts to know they'd done their best for the friends who had left this world.

The wounded fighters who'd fled to the foothills before the second bombardment had been able to see well enough the conflagration that had claimed the enemy ship, and they now dribbled back down to the dunes to rejoin what remained of their army. The worst of the injuries could finally receive proper treatment, now that there was no longer any searat artillery threatening to blast the very sand they lay upon.

Their burial duties finished and the battle behind them, Urthblood's troops collapsed onto the cold sand, some falling asleep before they'd even unrolled their bedding. Around the perimeter of their camp, the seagulls settled onto their feathered tails to sit out the winter night, some putting their heads under their wings and others content to rest their beaks on their rising and falling breasts. The only creatures who did not seek immediate rest were the more skilled healerbeasts among them, who had their paws full well into the night ministering to the war victims who needed their attention.

It had taken the unanticipated arrival of the oil-and-vitriol-bearing gulls and cost the lives of nearly half his forces, but Matowick's strategy had paid off. The slaves under Browder's care were free of pursuit, the wounded who'd been left behind at the lumber mill were safe from siege, and another searat attack dreadnought and its crew had been destroyed, further weakening Tratton. Most important of all, they had forced the searats into revealing yet another new weapon, and now Lord Urthblood knew about it. That alone would have been worth the lives of everybeast in their assault force.

But the searats had run out of lives before the woodlanders had, and now they were all slain, as Urthblood had wanted. Or so they believed ...

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The tiny crew of the Butcher Buoy had barely heard or felt the first series of explosions aboard the _Sharktail_, and so they did not surface to investigate, intent instead upon their underwater patrol to keep the otters from returning. When the main powder storeroom blew the stern of the giant ship clear out of the water, however, the shock wave hit the small submersible like a huge fist, rocking it back and forth like a kelp frond in storm-tossed ocean waters. Rivets burst, sending the weapons officers scrambling to patch the spraying leaks with the emergency resin they carried for just such contingencies.

Thapa, the senior of the two officers, shouted at the pilot, "Take us up! Take us up!"

The Butcher Buoy surfaced to the seaward side of the _Sharktail_ ... or what was left of her. The iron attack sub lacked periscope and dorsal windows, so the only way its occupants could ever know what was going on above them was to surface and open the top hatch.

Thapa was not prepared for the sight which greeted him. Against the gray gloaming of approaching twilight towered the floundering, crippled and dying _Sharktail_, ablaze from stem to stern and from deck to topmast, although most of the sails and rigging had by this time fallen from their supports, smothering and burning any rats who'd failed to escape the doomed vessel. It was a nightmare sight to make any loyal searat cry.

"What is it?" came the demanding voices from below him. "Whaddya see? What's goin' on?"

Thapa stepped down the short ladder, dogging the hatch tight as he did so, then turned to his six companions and described to them what he'd seen. Their eyes went wide and their jaws slack as they heard the news. A couple wanted to go up and see for themselves, but Thapa overrode them with an emphatic wave of his paw.

"Nay. I dunno what those woodlanders did t' cause this, but we ain't exposin' ourselves to 'em any more'n we hafta. Th' _Sharktail'_s 'tween us an' th' shore, so I don't think they coulda seen us come up, an' that's th' way I wanna keep it! Mayhap they've forgot about us 'n' mayhap they haven't, but I won't tempt 'em! Take us down, an' then head north! I wanna put as much distance 'tween us an' here as I can before we hafta come up fer air again!"

"But ... what about th' _Sharktail_, sir? We can't abandon her!"

"The _Sharktail_'s dead!" Thapa snapped. "Naught we can do fer her, nor she for us! We gotta think of ourselves now, an' that means gettin' while th' gettin's good!"

"But, we got no food, or water!"

"Or beds!"

"Or spare clothes!"

"Or weapons, even!"

"Lissen up!" Thapa roared. "There's nothin' for us here - nothin'! Now, these woodland devils have destroyed King Tratton's timber mill an' two o' his dreadnoughts. How's His Majesty gonna find out what went on here unless he hears it from us? We'll find food 'n' water, even if we hafta sail all th' way up to th' River Moss! But more'n anything else, we gotta keep ourselves alive ... 'cos th' way things're lookin' now, we seven might be th' only survivors outta this thing!"

With a few more words of persuasion, Thapa convinced his fellow searats that his plan of action was wisest, and soon the slightly leaky Butcher Buoy was headed north, where it would not be seen by goodbeasts' eyes anytime again that season.

00000000000

Morning dawned just as gray as the previous day had been. Vagrant scattered snowflakes drifted on the offshore breezes, a reminder that winter was not yet over. The seagulls roused themselves at first light, squawking and squabbling as they flew out to sea to fish for their breakfasts. The cold, sunless weather didn't seem to bother them any more than did the loss of several of their fellow gulls in the battle with the searats. The quarrelsome birds truly seemed to live only for the moment, and the woodlanders found it almost impossible to hold meaningful conversation with them, even if it was to offer congratulations and thanks for their performance in the prior day's fighting. They might now be allies, but it was difficult to think of the temperamental gulls as true comrades in arms.

While the seabirds fished, the land creatures enjoyed a breakfast that was both somber and grateful. The squirrels, otters, shrews and slaves knew what a close thing it had been for any of them to have survived into today. If the gulls hadn't shown up when they had ...

Two more of the injured warriors had died during the night. The shrew and squirrel were hastily and respectfully laid to rest together in a new grave, and then the depleted army made ready to resume their southward march. The shrews and otters returned to their logboats, content in the knowledge that they could cruise the waters beyond the breakers without fear of further searat attacks. There were many empty seats, but as a matter of pride Lieutenant Tardo refused to consider leaving any of the logboats behind, so they sailed half-crewed.

Although the boats could clearly make better time than beasts on foot, it was unanimously decided that those on the water would slacken their pace to keep abreast of the Gawtrybe. After all they'd been through together, there was no question of separating now. Besides, they were still several days away from Salamandastron - plenty of time for new trouble to rear its head.

The empty space in the logboats allowed for several of the most seriously wounded to be laid in the vessels for transport. This spared the squirrels and slaves from having to carry them on litters, and would enable the entire troop to make better time than they would otherwise.

As they helped the stiffed-legged Perricone into one of the boats, Captain Saybrook and Lieutenant Tardo speculated on the one order of searat business that had not been conclusively resolved.

"Whatcha s'pose ever happened to that liddle iron ship that attacked yer otters?" the shrew chief wondered.

Saybrook gazed seaward as he settled the lame Gawtrybe lieutenant into her seat in the beached logboat. Even though the _Sharktail_ had been close to shore so it could lob its explosive kegs into the upper dunes, none of her burnt carcass protruded above the wavetops, so total had her destruction been. Perhaps at low tide some of the wreck might be visible, but for the moment its watery grave was total.

"I 'magine it went down with the big 'un," Saybrook guessed. "Either it was back onboard, or else it was still under th' dreadnought, or it was alongside when she blew. Any way y' slice it, don't see how it coulda survived that calamity. No sign of it comin' ashore, an' it weren't made fer bein' out on th' open sea on its own. So, if we ain't seen it pop up yet, don't reckon we're gonna."

"Yah, ye're prob'ly right." Tardo helped Saybrook push the logboat into the surf, then hopped aboard and took up his paddle. "I'll just be happy t' get back t' Salamandastron without further hassle. An' if I never see another searat agin in my life, it'll be too soon!"

Saybrook waded in up to his waist and gave the boat a final shove. The small craft crested a forming swell and shot out into calmer waters under the sure strokes of its shrew and otter rowers.

"See you at th' mountain!" the otter captain called out with a salute, then started toward his own boat. "But I wouldn't count on not seein' anymore searats th' rest o' yer life, matey," he muttered to himself. "After what we done to 'em these last few days, I'll wager we'll be seein' lots more o' their nasty hides, this season or next!"


	16. Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

A hint of spring was in the air, and Browder's footpaws were quite muddy as he came stamping back to rejoin the former slaves on their march across the Western Plains.

Kurdyla smirked at their hare escort. "Step in somethin', matey?"

"Bally sun's meltin' all the bloomin' snow," Browder answered gruffly, "an' the ground's gettin' all squishy in spots. Flippin' nuisance! I'm happy as anybeast that the weather's growin' milder on us, but it's gonna make for some right messy walkin', wot?"

Kurdyla shrugged. "Frozen footpaws or muddy ones, take yer pick. Speakin' fer some o' my littler buddies 'ere, I reckon they've had enuff cold t' last 'em 'til next winter. These warm 'n' sunny days are a welcome thing fer them."

"I s'pose." Browder gave the earthly-fragrant air a sniff. "Wonder how close we are t' spring, anyway?"

The mouse Wexford spoke up. "Four days."

Most heads turned his way. "An' how in the name of jumpin' treetoads would you know that?" Browder asked.

"I count the days," Wexford replied. "Always have, all my life. Even while I was a slave, I kept track of the days, so I'd always know exactly where we were in each season. And there are four days left of winter."

"Hmph." Browder turned away from the mouse. "Didn't know we had a bally walkin' calendar with us ... "

Kurdyla brought the conversation back to more immediate concerns. "So, Browder, how're things lookin' up ahead?"

"Aside from the mud, y' mean? Empty as me ol' granny's biscuit tin after mum's side o' the family stopped by for vittles. Nobeast in sight, just like it's been all along this bloomin' march. These plains are just plain deserted, an' no mistake!"

Fallace the hedgehog maid said, "That's sure t' change with this warmer weather. More beasts'll be out an' about, stirrin' from their winter slumbers."

"Aye, that I reckon they will," Kurdyla agreed. "An' they're like as not t' be goodbeasts, or at least folk who'll not cause us any trouble. Though we still gotta keep a sharp eye peeled fer bothersome vermin sorts. Even if them searats ain't chasin' after us, there might be other bad influences about."

Wharff, the other otter in their company, offered, "Well, don't y' wager any verminous types would think twice 'fore harassin' a party large as ours?"

"There's safety in numbers shore 'nuff, Wharff matey. But I ain't takin' any chances with our newfound freedom. We didn't fight 'n' claw our way out from under th' searats' heel o' oppression just t' be snatched up by some other scurvy scum an' slapped in chains again - " Kurdyla held up his paws to display his manacle bracelets, " - or fer any of us t' lose our lives to thieves 'n' robbers. That's why it's important fer Browder 'ere to keep th' way ahead scouted clear fer us." The big otter clapped the hare hard on the back. "Ain't that right, y' bloomin' blinkin' bally jolly matey?"

"Er ... yes, quite," Browder said, recovering from the companionly pat that had practically knocked him off his feet. "I'm an old paw at rangin' free over hill an' dale, keepin' eyes out an' head down an' not attractin' undue notice to my hare-ish person. An' if I've been able t' do that for m'self all these seasons, I figure I can jolly well put my talents at your disposal as well, wot?" He glanced skyward. "Though even an esteemed hare such as yours truly can't scout out the lands like a bird can. Be nice if Klystra came back to us, don'tcha know. Been four days since he went flappin' off t' join that battle - "

"Three, Mr. Hare," Wexford corrected. "It was three afternoons since this one that the falcon flew off to the coast."

Browder shot the timekeeping mouse an annoyed glance. "Um, wotever, chappie. Bad form cuttin' off yer elders, though. Quite cheeky, wot? Ooph!" The player hare hadn't been watching where he was going and stumbled over a half-buried rock. "Ow! Now look at wot you made me go an' do! Stubbed my poor toe! Can't have that, if you want me t' do all yer bally runnin' for you."

The others all but ignored Browder's low-key histrionics; in the days they'd marched together, the ex-slaves had grown accustomed to the hare's theatrical and mock-pompous manner. "Would you like t' stop fer a few days so you c'n rest yer foot 'til yer boo-boo's all better?" Kurdyla grinned wryly.

"Oo! Here I am, sacrificin' life an' limb to get you all safely to Redwall, an' this is the thanks I get? Last blinkin' time I volunteer for a mission o' mercy!"

Kurdyla turned serious again. "Don't reckon it's a good sign that our bird friend ain't returned. Wonder how that battle went?"

Granholm, the only squirrel in the group, set his jaw hard. "Maybe I shoulda gone with 'em down the coast ... "

Fallace threw a paw around his shoulder. "Aw, Granny, you ain't no warrior, an' you knows it. There was some awful fierce fightin' goin' on back there, by the sound of it. Best that you came with us."

"Yah, well, however things turned out on the coast, it doesn't affect us now," Browder announced. "We've put enough distance 'tween us an' there that nobeast's gonna overtake us, friend or foe. An' since Klystra and his feathery brethren aren't seein' fit to keep us up to date, it's no jolly concern of ours. Eyes forward an' not back, wot? Minds on where we're going, not where we've been ... "

"How can you be so cavalier about this?" Granholm demanded, his tail switching in agitation. "Those were your fellow comrades in arms back there. They could all be dead now!"

"Comrades in arms?" Browder repeated, paw to his breast and ears flopped forward in overwrought consternation. "My good treewalloper, I'm no more a warrior than you are. A good deal less, I daresay. I only came along on this bloody trek because Urthblood wanted me to play scout. And when that badger asks you t' do something for him, you'd better have a bally good reason for sayin' no!"

A young female mouse named Clovis asked Browder, "Do you know how much longer until we reach Redwall? Do you think we'll be there by the first of spring?" Hope was huge in her wide green eyes.

"First of spring?" Browder twitched his whiskers in consideration. "Well, accordin' to that datebook masqueradin' as a mouse back there, that's four days from now. Four days ... hmm. Don't know if we can count on makin' _that_ good time, wot? But won't be too soon after that ... "

"You said we'd be able t' see Redwall by now," Wharff complained.

"Well! For your information, sir, I hadn't jolly well imagined that you lot would prove to be such a sorry bunch o' slowpokes! If I'd been on my own, I'd be kickin' up my heels in front o' the Abbey fireplace right now, warmin' my paws an' enjoyin' their scrumptious fare."

"An' gettin' brained by them other hares who live there," Kurdyla chided.

"Um ... yeah ... "

Every slave in their procession was vaguely aware of some past history between Browder and the hares of the Long Patrol, who now resided at Redwall. But attempts to question their escort as to the specifics of the situation had been adroitly deflected by the player hare.

"Sure you ain't just gone an' gotten us lost?" Kurdyla continued to josh Browder.

"Lost? Lost? I may not be intimately, precisely an' exactly familiar with this particular patch o' property, but I assure you, you discourteous, ungracious, thick-headed planktail, that I most certainly am _not_ lost!" Browder sprinted to the top of a small grassy hillock they were passing on their right, splashing mud and dirty snow in his wake, and struck what he supposed was a heroic pose upon the low crest, pointing to the east. "All we'd hafta do, if we wanted to be simple 'bout it, would be to saunter due east 'til we came to th' main road, then go south on it 'til we reached Redwall. But that'd be a tad out o' the way, don'tcha know. I'm only tryin' to save us some time on this jolly stroll, an' wot thanks do I get? Accusations of misguidance and general nincompoopery!"

"Well, he's got that last part right," Granholm snickered to Fallace.

"Aw, come on down off yore high tuffet, flopears," Kurdyla said placatingly. "I was just kiddin' ya. But th' truth is, we got mice 'n' 'hogs here, an' they ain't got th' leg power of us bigger creatures. Th' pace we've struck is th' one we'll hafta stick to, an' if that means gettin' to Redwall a few days later than we might've, that'll just hafta be good 'nuff fer all o' us."

"Oh. Okay, then." Satisfied, Browder descended the rise and rejoined Kurdyla at the head of the marchers. "Lost, indeed! The very idea! Hey, when d' you think we'll be stoppin' for lunch? Getting a mite peckish here, from all that dashin' about I did on your behalf, don'tcha know ... "

00000000000

They found a small high ground where they could sit down to their sparse lunch on a cushion of dry grass instead of snow or mud or wet leaves. The sun shone brightly as a mild breeze played about their fur and whiskers - a winter's day doing its best impersonation of the coming springtime. The meal was light because they were more than halfway through their provisions, and the late winter plains promised scant foraging. This was the biggest drawback to their slow pace; if they didn't quicken their step, there was a real risk that they would run out of food before they reached Redwall.

The former slaves marched all the rest of that afternoon under a pure blue sky streaked with banners of innocent white clouds that never once dared to interrupt the warming sunshine. Nearly half the snow that had lain upon the Western Plains had melted, making it easy to avoid what drifts and patches remained. The exposed ground grew quite squishy underpaw, making every step a wet encounter with sopping grass or squelching mud. Far from disheartening the marchers, this harbinger of warmer seasons to come left the ex-slaves almost giddy, and they stomped and stamped their way cheerfully across the damp surfaces like they were children again, playfully splashing in the aftermath of a summer shower.

Kurdyla had to smile as he glanced back over his shoulder at the way all his fellow former prisoners were carrying on. "Ah, does me heart a world o' good, seein' 'em able t' enjoy life again! There was times, back at that searat camp, when I never thought I'd see another smile on some o' those faces!"

"Yah," Browder offered dourly, "or so much mud on their footpaws, I bet. Wherever we stop for th' night, there'd better jolly well be a stream nearby, 'cos they're gonna need a bally good wash!"

Kurdyla frowned at the hare for casting such a downbeat assessment over the otherwise carefree mood. "Well, then, y' better go scout out such a place fer us, hadn't you?"

"Um ... righto, chap. Be back when I'm back ... " Browder shot off on another of his wide-ranging forward scouting excursions.

The hare reconnoitered as far ahead as he figured the group would be able to get before stopping for the night. At the forward limits of his investigations he encountered a wide, rocky lowland - almost a bowl-shaped valley of sorts - that lay thick with mist in the late afternoon sun. Clearly, here was a region where so much of the snow and meltwater had evaporated and then had nowhere to go that it formed a steady fog over the basin. But, there were no streams or pools visible through that mist, so Browder turned his back on it and went in search of a more suitable spot for his party to spend the night. They could cross the circular valley tomorrow, when it would hopefully be clear of its misty shroud.

Somewhat to the northwest of the basin, Browder found what he was looking for: a copse of trees by the side of a small creek, where they would have both clear water for drinking and bathing and some measure of shelter under the bare branches. The treetrunks and sparse undergrowth would hardly hide their campfire from any eyes seeking to find them, but it would be some improvement over lighting their fire out on the open, exposed plain, as they'd already done on a couple of nights. Besides, Kurdyla had continued to insist upon posting watches each night, and with such a precaution in place, the company was unlikely to be taken by surprise in their sleep.

Browder circled around to rejoin the group, then led them to the grove just as the sun dipped below the mountains behind them. Kurdyla eyed the trees appraisingly as they approached. "Y' made good 'n' shore there's nobeast in there? Looks like there's lotsa room, an' privacy-minded goodbeasts might be as unfriendly toward trespassers as vermin would."

Browder wrinkled his whiskers and splayed his ears half-sideways in umbrage. "My dear otter, please don't tell me how to scout, an' I won't go tellin' you how t' swim, wot? Course I checked it out! A chap knows how to do his job, don'tcha know. Poked my nose into every shrub an' between every treetrunk. We've got this bally bistro all to ourselves!"

"Okay, I'll take yer word fer it, matey," Kurdyla said, but then quickened his pace so that he'd be the first one among the trees. Even as he neared the sheltered spot, he held himself in a tensed crouch, ready to meet any surprise that might be waiting for him, hidden among the underbrush.

"Take my word for it, eh?" Browder muttered to himself, shaking his head. "Not bloody likely ... "

Once the big otter was satisfied for himself that the grove was clear, he ushered his fellows into the trees to join him and Browder. By nightfall, a hearty fire blazed by the brook's edge and a modest but savory hot dinner had been enjoyed by all.

Kurdyla, unbeknownst to the hare, had been keeping a close eye on Browder all throughout the meal. When Browder excused himself from the circle of diners around the campfire to heed nature's call, the otter was waiting to intercept him before he could rejoin the others upon his return.

Browder indignantly straightened his tunic at being thus stalked. "I say, can't a chap have a little privacy while attending to personal business?"

"You've already gotten more respect fer yer privacy than you warrant," Kurdyla said in a no-nonsense tone. "It's high time, 'fore we get any closer t' Redwall, fer you t' tell us 'xactly what's with you an' them other hares we'll be meetin' up with."

Browder hemmed and hawed, fidgeting back and forth, but he could tell from his inquisitor's voice and manner that there would be no avoiding the issue this time. "Um, don't suppose you're takin' no for an answer?"

"That I ain't. This effects all o' us. If we're gonna be walkin' inta th' middle o' some kinda feud 'tween you an' th' Long Patrol, as I hear they're called, we got a right t' know. Now, you can either tell me alone, or you can come back to th' fire an' tell us all. But one way or another, ye're tellin'."

Browder anxiously clasped and unclasped his paws in front of him. "Not a tale I'm especially proud of ... "

Kurdyla threw a paw around the hare's shoulder and guided him away from the flickering camplight and into the dark of night. "Then let's you an' me find a nice quiet spot where we can take th' first watch t'gether, an' you can tell me all about it."

00000000000

"It happened last summer," Browder began, his low voice the only sound in the night; the hare spoke softly out of self-consciousness rather than any sense of safety. "Lord Urthblood - he's the badger whose fighters freed you from the searats - had a brother named Urthfist who ruled the mountain fortress o' Salamandastron. Now, Urthblood was older, th' legitimate heir to th' throne, don'tcha know, an' after spendin' seasons up in th' Northlands slayin' vermin an' slavers an' warlords an' generally makin' it a better place to live all around, he decided it was time to come back down here an' reclaim th' throne his brother had been keepin' warm for him. Problem was, Urthblood had been hearin' things leadin' him to suspect Urthfist wasn't too keen on yieldin' the throne back to Urthblood. An' that's where I come in.

"Now, as you know, I'm no soldier or super trooper. Wot I am is a player, plain an' simple. A damn fine one, too, at th' dispensement of my own modesty. I'm also th' fastest hare in th' Northlands, or one of 'em at the very least. That's why Urthblood employed me for my skills. He had me go to Urthfist in Salamandastron, actin' the part of a simple Mossflower woodlands hare, with a story that Urthblood had attacked Redwall an' slain all its leaders, and we needed him to come rescue us from his brother."

This revelation rocked Kurdyla back on his haunches. "But ... but ... why would a badger attack Redwall?"

"That's wot I say!" Browder added pointedly. "Makes no bloomin' sense wotsoever, does it? Only a deranged beast would believe such a preposterous tale! But believe it Urthfist did, an' with not much bally proddin' on my part, lemme tell you. Believed it so quickly, he couldn't've been right in th' blinkin' brainbox. Guess all those seasons o' livin' under threat from Tratton can warp a creature's mind. Think that's wot Urthblood suspected, too, which is why he realized he hadta come down an' put himself back on th' bally throne.

"So anyway, Urthfist packs up eighty of his hundred hares of the Long Patrol an' goes runnin' off to Mossflower to fight his brother, while Urthblood an' his army come by a different route an' capture th' mountain right out from under him! An' I'll have you know not a single one of those twenty hares who were left behind to guard Salamandastron lost their lives when Urthblood moved in ... more's th' pity."

"Pity?" Kurdyla exclaimed in surprise. "What's th' pity with creatures not losin' their lives?"

Lines of sorrow creased Browder's face in the darkness; had it been daytime, he would have looked seasons older than he was.

"'Cos that madbeast Urthfist, when he got to Redwall an' found out he'd been bamboozled, came chargin' back to Salamandastron lookin' to recapture it ... an' his fourscore hares were right at his side, just as fired up fer battle as he was. So, there was a battle ... an' a lot of hares died, along with Urthfist himself. They didn't have a chance, but they took a lot of Urthblood's soldiers with 'em. I'll never again see a shrew friend of mine named Jarbo as a result of that skirmish."

Kurdyla studied Browder's night-shadowed form in the blackness. "If I were them, I'd wanna kill you too."

"But, it wasn't supposed to happen that way!" Browder protested, thinking he detected tones of condemnation in the otter's voice. "It wouldn't have, if that pigheaded, battle-crazed badger had had an ounce of reason in his addled skull! Lord Urthblood went way, way out of his way to arrange things so he could reclaim his throne - his rightful throne! - without anybeast gettin' killed!" Browder buried his head in his paws. "Why'd they hafta go an' fight such a hopeless cause? I could see Urthfist doin' it, if he really was insane. But why'd his hares agree t' go along with him? Didn't they have more sense than that?"

Into the silence that followed, Kurdyla said, "Seems t' me that if Urthblood arranged t' remove his brother from power 'cos he feared Urthfist weren't right in th' head, then he should've expected that Urthfist might do somethin' just exactly like what he did ... "

Browder stared at the otter's dark-upon-dark figure seated on the log across from him. "You sayin' ... Urthblood _wanted_ his brother an' th' Long Patrol to attack?"

"Got his only challenger outta th' way, didn't it?" Kurdyla shrugged. "I wasn't part o' those events, so I guess I can't say one way or th' other. I do know that Urthblood sent his warriors t' fight th' searats, an' I owe my freedom to him. Mine, an' that of every slave who's back there around that fire, or who went down th' coast with his fighters. An' if he's against th' searats enuff so that he'd do 'em th' damage I saw inflicted on 'em, then I'm on his side. Feuds over some badger throne don't concern me much - not when there's evil in this world like th' searats."

Kurdyla stood and headed back toward the campsite, pausing to put a paw on Browder's shoulder. "That bein' said, I reckon mebbe it'd be a good idea if you don't come all th' way t' Redwall with us. Take us as far as 'til we can see th' Abbey ourselves, then lose yerself back out on th' plains. 'Cos those hares _will_ kill you if they see you ... an' after all we slaves have been through, that's one headache we shore don't need."

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Kurdyla did not share what Browder had told him with the rest of the slaves, as far as the hare could tell. During breakfast the following morning, no mention was made of the matter, and none of the others regarded Browder any differently than before. Kurdyla must have sensed that their guide had only revealed this chapter of his past at the otter's urging, and realized this was something Browder preferred to keep to himself. Whatever the reason, Browder was relieved that this would be kept between him and Kurdyla for now.

The day broke mild but overcast, an unsettled mix of wintry gray and spring breezes. Concluding their morning meal and burying the remnants of their campfire, the company set out once more for Redwall.

A short period of marching brought them to the edge of the rock-strewn basin Browder had encountered the afternoon before. Fog still lay over most of the circular valley, just as it had the previous day, its opaque white vapors hugging the ground in patches or twisting through the air in slow motion swirls and wisps.

"Funny," Browder said, stroking his whiskers, "I would've thought this mist would be cleared away by now. Then again, it is a warm morn, in spite of Mr. Sun hidin' behind the bally clouds ... "

Kurdyla scanned the terrain that lay before them. "Hmm. Don't see any streams or ponds. No snow, neither. Wonder what's causin' that steam?"

"Could be some underground spring or such," Browder supposed. "Or maybe the ground's just very wet. It is a low spot, don'tcha know. All th' snowmelt from the last couple o' days coulda flowed here, makin' it marshy."

Clovis the mousemaid regarded the basin with trepidation in her eyes. "I don't like it ... "

Kurdyla threw a paw around her shoulder. "Aw, just a liddle mornin' mist, missie. Naught t' be skittish 'bout."

Clovis wasn't entirely comforted. "But last night it was evening mist - Browder said it was there yesterday too."

"Well, it was sunny and warm yesterday," Granholm the squirrel commented. "Just the kind of conditions you'd expect to find steam clinging around low areas. Nothin' sinister about it."

"Sinister?" Browder scoffed, in complete agreement with Granholm. "M' dear, you've been listenin' to too many ghost stories if you're gonna let a few puffs spook you. Why, in the sunlight this place looks as jolly innocent as a mousebabe sucklin' on flowerbread. Just th' clouds overhead makin' it look more gloomy than it really is, wot?"

Kurdyla glanced left and right. "Well, it's too big t' go around, that's fer shore. We'll just all stick close t'gether, an' with a brisk pace we'll be up an' out the other side by lunchtime! We can even sing some shanties t' keep our spirits up!"

Granholm grimaced. "We've all heard your caterwaulin', Kurdy. That'd surely be enough t' scare away any ghosts that were thinkin' of haunting us!"

"Well, in that case ... " Browder stepped ahead of the others. "Lemme get back to wot I do best, wot? I'll just sprint down ahead, scope out th' bally basin from top t' bottom, an' let you know if anything's amiss. An' if I get lost in th' bloomin' mist, I'll just follow Captain Planktail's mellifluous melodies to find my jolly way back!"

Browder shot off down the gently-sloped side of the basin, and was soon seen dodging rapidly between the rocky outcrops and fading in and out of the mists.

Kurdyla took Clovis's paw in his own and led her down into the valley at the head of the party. "Come along, lads 'n' lasses! Th' day's a-wastin', an' Redwall ain't gettin' any closer with us just standin' here!"

The others followed the otter and mouse down the slope. In his customary position at the rear of the marchers, the former searat Syrek silently fretted and fussed over their course of action. He shared the reservations Clovis had expressed about this place, but had kept his feelings to himself. After all, who cared what a searat had to say?

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Browder raced across the basin in his usual harelike manner, weaving among obstructions that rose in his path and dodging the denser banks of the mist. He noticed as he ran that the entire low-lying area seemed permeated by a sickly-sweet aroma, like the fragrance of summer garden flowers mingled with overripe fruit. At its strongest, the odor had an acrid edge to it that stung the nose slightly and made the eyes water. It seemed worst where the hanging vapors were thickest, and Browder studiously avoided these after his first few encounters with the fog.

"Hoowwm! Must be somethin' pretty flippin' foul under this soddin' sod," Browder yawned to himself as he emerged from the last of the misty zone to scale the far slopes of the round valley. He was too drowsy to realize that he never yawned when he was running, and too lightheaded to wonder why he might be doing so.

Cresting the final rise that put him fully back up on the level of the plains, Browder turned to regard the basin and its clinging mists. "Whooom ... glad t' be outta there! Could put a chap right t' sleep, all that gloom ... Mwoooomm!" He was struck by a sudden wave of exhaustion, fully exerting itself now that he was at rest, and he could not stop yawning as he swayed upon his footpaws. He shook his head violently to keep his eyes from snapping shut.

"Humph! Must be lack o' shuteye, Kurdyla keepin' me up half th' night standin' watch an' talkin' 'bout such unpleasant things ... Whaaaoomph! Well, no bally danger down there that this hare could see, so I think I've earned th' reward o' forty winks, wot? I'll just stretch out here for a bit ... an' be back to sorts ... by th' time my cohorts come stompin' up this way ... yes, that sounds fine ... "

Browder found a small grassy hollow and settled down into it, letting his instincts take over even as he fell asleep. Being a hare, his few last-moment twists and fidgets served to blend him into the landscape.

Browder had gone to ground, and nobeast who didn't actually trip over his slumbering form would be likely to notice him.

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The others, making their way more slowly through the basin, were overcome with drowsiness before they were halfway across.

They'd noticed the peculiar smell almost at once, but it took many paces before the effects of the mist began to tell in earnest.

Clovis, at Kurdyla's side, wrinkled her nose. "Ugh! Smells like ... bad perfume!"

"Really, lass? I think it smells kinda pretty. Wonder what it could be?"

"Flowers, I guess," supposed Granholm the squirrel. "Tho' I gotta agree with Clovis ... I think it's stinky."

"How could it be flowers?" asked Wexford, the mouse who kept track of days and seasons. "It's still winter. No flowers would be out yet."

"Wexy's right," seconded the 'hogmaid Fallace. "'sides, I don't see no flowers down 'ere - just grass, an' moss, an' rocks."

"Smells t' me more like fruit," put in the other otter, Wharff. "Nice, sweet, tasty fruit ... "

"Don't be daft," Fallace scowled. "Aside from th' time o' year, there ain't a bush or tree anywhere hereabouts. So there can't be fruit."

Wharff pulled a petulent lower lip. "Well, ain't there kinds o' mushrooms an' things that grow underground? Maybe this's sumpthin' like that ... "

"Shrooms don't smell like fruit. They smell ... mushroomy."

"An' do y' really feel like diggin' fer 'em, Wharff matey?"

"I know I feel like going to sleep," another mouse said from farther back in the group. "I could lie down on this soggy turf and drift off right nooooaaw ..."

From alongside Kurdyla, Clovis uncorked a monstrous yawn that threatened to unhinge her jaw. "Hmmmawwph! I second that notion!"

The brawny otter playfully ruffled her headfur. "Aw, that's no way t' enjoy yer newfound freedom, is it? Plenty o' time fer snoozin' in nice cozy beds once we all reach Redwall! Fer now, it's one footpaw in front o' the other, 'til we get there!"

But by another few dozen steps, every one of the smaller creatures - the mice and hedgehogs, and even Syrek the rat and Granholm the squirrel - were yawning uncontrollably and tottering on their feet as if they might topple over at any moment. Even the otters were beginning to feel a heavy drowsiness upon them, although they were still more clearheaded than the others.

Wharff, supporting two sleepy mice who leaned heavily against either side of him, said to Kurdyla, "Hey, matey, I think there's sumpthin' down 'ere that's makin' us all woozy ... "

"Aye, I reckon you may be right," Kurdyla nodded, all but carrying Clovis to keep her upright. "In this mist, or 'neath it ... "

"But, if this fog puts us t' sleep," Wharff said, struggling to complete a rational thought through the cobwebs rapidly clogging his brain, "an' we fall over while we're still in it, then we won't be able t' get out of it. I mean, it'll be all around us, even while we're asleep. So, it'd be like ... like ... we'd fall asleep, an' never wake up!"

"Naw ..." Kurdyla responded, his tongue suddenly thick in his mouth. "If this place was that kinda death trap, there'd be bones o' other beasts all about us ... "

"Not if the locals knew t' keep ... away ... away from it ... "

Fear tried to strike at Kurdyla's heart through the descending shroud of grogginess, but he was already too far under the grip of the narcotic vapors to be jolted by the shot of adrenaline that might have spurred him to action under other circumstances. Could it really be that he'd led all his friends, all these creatures who were depending upon him, to their deaths? The idea was too terrible to contemplate. Ot at least it seemed very sad, in some fuzzy and distant way ...

Clovis slipped out of his grasp and fell onto the damp ground, her pack forcing her onto her face. Kurdyla found himself incapable of preventing her fall, and unable to reach down to pick her up. The world swam and spun before his eyes, and within moments he was unable to keep on his own feet.

The two otters were the last to go down, but not even they could resist the creeping effects of the sleep-inducing mist. Before long, every member of their party lay fast asleep under the gray winter morning and the drifting wisps of white vapor.


	17. Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

When Browder awoke, the mild throbs of a distant headache gently kneading his skull, the sun was out from behind the clouds. His initial joy at this improvement in the weather turned to dismay when he realized that the sun shone into his eyes from just above the mountains on the western horizon.

"Oh, hornswoggle! Don't tell me I went an' slept away th' whole bally afternoon? That won't improve our mileage much, wot?"

He immediately set about searching for his companions in the nearby vicinity. Finding no sign of the creatures themselves, Browder sought evidence that they had passed by him while he slumbered, but the only tracks in the soft ground that led up out of the basin were his own.

"Now that's dashed odd, I must say." The hare threw his gaze left and right. There were only two possibilities: either the marchers had come up at some other point along the basin's rim, or else they'd never emerged from the circular valley at all.

This second option didn't appeal to Browder at all. If the former slaves had gotten by him, he could simply pick up their trail and run ahead to catch up with them - no trouble at all for a hare. But if they were for some reason still down in the basin, that would put them almost a day behind their already lagging schedule, and further strain their limited food supply. This prospect did not please Browder's stomach one bit. To quiet its protests, he settled down and helped himself to some dry biscuits from his provision sack.

"I say, this is a dilly of a pickle, wot?" he muttered to himself between mouthfuls. "Blinkin' sun's already gone down, an' I haven't a clue which way that motley crew's gone. Might take me 'til nightfall to find their trail, if there's even one t' jolly well find, an' then I daresn't take off after 'em since I could lose it again in th' dark. S'pose I could light a fire to let 'em know where th' blazes I am, but then I'd risk attractin' the wrong element, don'tcha know, an' that'd be a right poor piece o' judgment for a simple non-fightin' beast all on his own like I am. An' if they're far ahead, they're not likely to be lookin' back for my fire anyway. Then again, if they're still stuck down in that misty lowland, that'd be even worse ... "

So intent was he on his personal ruminations that Browder failed to notice the winged shadow that dropped down out of the twilight sky to land lightly behind him. The firm prod he received between his shoulder blades from the curved beak made him jump nearly his own height straight up in the air in surprise.

Klystra stood waiting to greet him when he spun round, his remaining biscuits scattered across the ground. "Gah! Don't go ambushin' a chap like that, you feathered frighter! You made me toss my cookies!"

If a falcon could have smiled, Klystra might have done so.

"Well, glad t' see you're still in one piece," Browder admitted grudgingly, stooping to gather his spilled biscuits before they got too damp. "Sounded like a real high-kickin' melee wot was goin' on out there on the coast, an' when you didn't show your danderface for so many days, we were beginnin' to wonder, naturally, whether you might've been killed. So, um ... how did the bally battle go?"

"We won," Klystra replied. "But losses very, very high. Survivors almost back to Salamandastron. I stay with them until they safe, close to mountain. Then I fly back to you." The falcon glanced around them. "Took some looking, one hare alone. Where the rest of you?"

"Um ... well, that's the thing, you see. I seem to have misplaced them."

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Klystra insisted that he had flown all over the Western Plains in his search for Browder and the former slaves, and that the others were nowhere to be seen anywhere within a day's march of their present position. Browder, however, was equally adamant that the falcon make one more survey flight before the daylight failed altogether, just in case the small party might have escaped the bird's notice. Klystra was quick to point out that he'd been able to spot a solitary hare with neutral-colored fur and earth-tone clothing, but in the end he gave into the blustering hare's demands just to get away from Browder.

While Klystra performed his aerial reconnaissance, Browder raced to and fro along the lip of the basin-shaped valley, frantically searching for any sign at all that his charges might have come up out of it to one side of him or the other. But no matter how hard he looked, he could find no trace of the tracks that surely would have shown in the damp earth. It appeared the slaves had not made it out of the basin at all, unless they'd gone way, way off course.

The sky was nearly dark by the time Klystra gently glided down out of the deepening twilight to rejoin Browder on the ground. "Nobeast, nobeast anywhere," the falcon reported.

"Same here." Browder pursed his lips. "Well, I s'pose you can go up again when it's full night, see if you can spot 'em by their campfire ... "

"No." Klystra shook his feathered head emphatically. "No fly at night."

"No? Well, that's a bit of a paw-binder, wot? Makes you ineffective jolly half th' time, wot? Still, guess we can't expect you to be a bat as well as a bird, can we?" Browder glanced around the level plains, then turned to descend into the basin. "Looks like our procrastinatin' procession's still lollygaggin' their way down here, so might as well join 'em. More sheltered anyway, an' a better place t' hunker down for th' night. Not that I'm gonna be all that sleepy, with all that shuteye I got today. Still don't know wot came over me ... "

Klystra, who'd been following Browder down the slope on foot with wings folded, suddenly flapped and fluttered in alarm, hastily retreating from the low ground before them. "Not go down there! Not go, either of us!"

Browder stopped in his tracks, peering back over his supply pack at the agitated falcon. "I say, wot's all th' bluster 'n' fluster?"

"Flitchaye gas! Flitchaye gas!" the raptor cawed in warning.

"Well, that's nice. Now, would you jolly well mind makin' a modicum of sense?"

"Flitchaye gas, what Urthblood used to make Salamandastron hares sleep. Smell it now, down there!"

Browder's eyes went wide. "You don't blinkin' bloomin' say? Well, that sure explains how I got so suddenly stricken by the snoozes this mornin'. Um, are you certain, Klystra chappie? This is wot that stuff smells like?"

Browder had not been present during Urthblood's invasion of Salamandastron the previous summer, but he had heard the stories of how the Badger Lord's otters had silently infiltrated the mountain fortress one rainy night and used some manner of sleep-inducing gas to render unconscious the twenty hares who had been left to guard the stronghold. This was how Urthblood had been able to reclaim his throne without any loss of life ... at least up to that point.

"Not exactly same, but very close," Klystra said. "That, Flitchaye gas, or very similar."

Browder stood in silence for a long time, staring down into the suddenly forbidding misty darkness of the valley. "Which means," he concluded at last, "that our friends're lyin' asleep down there right now. So, wot do we do about it?"

"Must wear mask," answered Klystra. "Damp cloth, over nose, keep you awake."

"Right. Well, I've got a spare kerchief or two here in my bag. I'll just sprinkle a little water from my drinkin' pouch onto one, tie it 'round my face, an' be on my way. Prob'ly need a torch or two, so I can find 'em without trippin' over 'em ... "

"Not now," Klystra ordered. "Wait until morning."

"Wot? And leave them down there all night?"

"Not safe. May be danger. Wait for morning."

It was clear from Klystra's tone that the bird genuinely feared venturing into the narcotic vapors in the dark, and considered it a mistake for Browder to do so as well. And since the falcon had experience dealing with the fiendish stuff, while Browder did not ...

"Okay, okay." The hare turned about and tramped back up to the top of the slope, leaving behind the cloyingly sweet vapors that hung and coiled below. "I gather they'll be fine where they are. Not like they'll be gettin' up an' strollin' off in th' night, with all that sleepy stuff blanketing them. I say, Klystra old chum, wot's a load of Urthblood's Flitchy gas doin' here anyway? I mean, does it occur naturally?"

"No, not naturally," came the reply out of the gloaming. "If Flitchaye gas down there, somebeast put it there."

"Somebeast ... put ... ?" Browder gulped. "Um, Klystra chappie, I think you'd better tell me more about this ... "

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The former slaves awoke to find themselves captives once again.

They came around one at a time, cracking open their bleary eyes to behold before them an underground cavern lit by a mysterious green glow. The sickly sweet smell from the rocky basin, now tinged with a hint of smokiness, hung in the air. Thick, tough vines bound them tightly to a rock column that rose from floor to ceiling. Clearly, there would be no escape unless they were able to break these bonds.

Every one of them woke with a headache. For the two otters and Granholm the squirrel it was a mild pain that didn't greatly bother them, but for the smaller creatures - even Syrek the searat - it was a heavy throbbing in their skulls that made cogent thinking difficult. As a result, conversation among the newly-revived companions was far from erudite.

"Oooo, my head!" Wexford the mouse moaned softly. He tried to lift a paw to his temple, and was surprised to find both arms tied to the rock he sat against. "Hey, what's with this?"

"We been captured, matey," Kurdyla said from two beasts over; Clovis sat between Wexford and the otter. Kurdyla had been one of the first to awaken, and had offered what little explanation and reassurance he could to those who'd returned to consciousness after him. "Sorry, looks like I led you all astray an' landed us in a right fix."

"Oh, it's all right, Kurdyla," Clovis said comfortingly through the dull pain that hammered at the inside of her skull. "Nobeast could've known that mist would put us to sleep - ooo! - or allow us to be captured."

Granholm struggled in vain against the vines encircling all of them. "But captured by who, is what I want to know ... "

The squirrel's question was soon to be answered, as ghostly, indistinct shapes began to dance and cavort at the limits of their vision in the dim green cavern. There were other beasts down here, many of them, who were not tied or restrained in any way. A distant chattering, almost like the echoes of mocking laughter, reached the woodlanders' ears.

"I'm scared," Clovis whined softly.

Kurdyla lowered his head to rest his cheek between the female mouse's ears - the only scant physical comfort he could show her in their present state. "There there, lass. We're all in this t'gether. Whatever these nasty li'l terrors are, they can't be worse'n those searats. So be a brave liddle champ, an' don't let 'em get to ya!"

From the other side of the rock column, where Fallace and some of the other mice had been the last to wake up, the hedgehog yelled out, "Hey, there's shrews back here!"

That got everybeast's attention (as well as making the mouse on either side of Fallace wince), for there had been no shrews among their party. Kurdyla called back, "What, you mean it's shrews who've taken us prisoner?"

"Nay. They're tied up same as us, but to a different rock. Must be captives too."

"Well, if they've been down here longer'n us, they might know what we're up 'gainst. Are they awake?"

"Aye ... an' they look 'bout as moody as I feel," Fallace reported.

"Then ask 'em what they're doin' here, an' what's going on ... "

"Don't need yer spikedog, we hear ya well enuff, otter," came a gruff voice from the part of the cavern behind Kurdyla. "An' if'n ye're hopin' fer hope, there ain't none t' give. These're killers who've got us in their clutches - savage killers. Ain't none o' us makin' it outta here alive."

"Says you," Kurdyla spat back defiantly at the unseen shrew, straining at his bonds as he did so. He stopped when he saw that his struggles were pulling the vines uncomfortably tight against the others; it must have been especially bad for those around on the opposite side of the column. Whoever had designed this method of confinement had been fiendishly clever about it.

"What are we gonna do?" Wexford groaned in dismay.

"Fer th' moment, just sit tight, looks like," Kurdyla replied, but added optimistically, "Don't worry, we'll think of somethin' ... "

No sooner had he made this hopeful pronouncement than their captors swarmed out of the green murk to close in on them, surrounding the slaves on all sides. They danced and swayed as they chanted in unison, as if it were some kind of ritual.

"Aye, aye, Flitch-aye-aye! Aye, aye, Flitch-aye-aye!"

They were weasels, scrawny and unclothed. Any one of them alone, seen in the full light of day, would have seemed pathetic and unthreatening. But here, in the eerie green glow from the rocks and in such numbers, they truly were menacing. The fang-bared expressions of malicious anticipation upon their faces were frightening, transforming them from scraggly vermin to monstrous ogres. Several carried clay pots hanging on cords, from which issued wisps of smoke that reeked of the same acrid perfume as permeated the basin-shaped valley somewhere above them.

"By me rudder," Kurdyla muttered under his breath, "what a hideous bunch o' heathens!"

One of the weasels pranced up to him, sticking the haft of its spear none-too-gently under Kurdyla's jaw. "Heeheehee, deesa beasts all awakey now!"

"Yes, we're all awake," Granholm grumbled. "Now, who the fur are you, an' what do you want from us?"

"Aheehee! We d' Flitch-aye-aye! You belonga us now!"

"Flitch-aye-aye?" the otter Wharff repeated. "That's a pretty stupid-sounding name, if'n y' asks me."

The weasel who'd addressed Kurdyla darted over to the other otter and gave Wharff a savage poke in the stomach, eliciting a sharp "oomph" of pain from the restrained woodlander.

"You givva d' Flitch-aye-aye lip, we givva you pain, plentya pain!"

"Stop it!" Clovis burst out in indignation over this mistreatment of her comrade, her previous fear forgotten in her anger. "You've some nerve, capturing innocent travellers and tying us up and treating us this way! You think you can make us your slaves? Well, we've been enslaved by better than you, and they couldn't keep us in chains! And neither will you!"

"That's th' spirit, Clovis me bucko!" Kurdyla whispered aside to her.

But the spokesweasel came right up to the recalcitrant mouse, thrusting its ugly snout into her face.

"Yeeheehee! Deesa smarteemouse think we wanna make'r nastee slave!"

"Well, then, whaddya want with us?" Kurdyla demanded.

The weasel smiled wickedly. "D' Flitch-aye-aye live unner d' ground. No food grow unnerground. So, how you think d' Flitch-aye-aye eat?"

Clovis grew pale at the implication. "Oh! Oh, no!"

"'Fraid 'ee's not pullin' our legs," Fallace said from her side of the column. "Now that my eyes have cleared a bit, I can see a pile of bones back 'ere ... "

"Aye," came a shrew's voice. "Two o' our mates. All that's left of 'em, anyways ... "

The lead weasel sniggered. "Shrewee meat all tough 'n' stringy! Betcher mousee meat tastee much, much better, teehee!" His face still a mere whisker's breadth from Clovis's, he licked his pallid lips with a disgusting wet smack.

"You touch one strand of fur on her head," Kurdyla growled menacingly, "an' I'll snap yer scrawny neck, I swear it!"

"Eehee! No touchee fur, fur tastee bad, hee! But meat unner fur tastee good!" The weasel bounded across to Wexford, who sat trembling on Kurdyla's other side. "I thinkee we take-a this mousee first. He looks juicy-tastee, mmeehee!"

"You've got us all tied t'gether," Kurdyla pointed out. "You can't take one of us without freein' alla us ... an' you don't wanna do that, berlieve you me."

The weasel, though small, gave the otter's outstretched footpaw a stamp that twisted the ankle painfully. "You sucha smartee waterdog! You see d' Flitch-aye-aye smarter den you!"

Several of the weasels came forward and loosened Wexford's bonds. Surprisingly, the other prisoners remained tightly bound. Kurdyla, an old paw at rope lore himself, could not begin to imagine what system of knots and bindings the Flitch-aye-aye were using that would allow such a thing, but the flesh-eating weasels had clearly mastered these skills. There was nothing any of them could do as Wexford was dragged struggling and protesting from the cavern by the weasel horde.

Kurdyla went berserk, red rage flooding his vision at the thought of what lay in store for Wexford, not caring how his efforts to break his bonds hurt his companions. Not only did he pull and strain against his confining vines with all his bodily strength, but he also dropped his head and began gnawing furiously at them as well.

When the weasels saw what Kurdyla was doing, they went into a panic. Clearly, they did not want the big burly otter loose among them in such a rage. Several smacked him across the face and head with their spears, but the blows had almost no effect. Finally, in desperation, the leader grabbed one of the smoking clay pots from an underling and broke it over Kurdyla's head. The vessel smashed into a shower of shards and smoky embers that cascaded down around the otter.

The heavy blow did the trick. Kurdyla slumped forward, stunned by the brutal impact upon his skull. The dim green cave receded into nothingness in his vision, his awareness gone even as more of the weasels surged forward and continued to rain down more sharp blows upon his unconscious form.

In fact, by the time they were done with him, they had worked up quite an appetite indeed.

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Time passed. How much time, none of the woodlanders in the cavern could say. Kurdyla remained slumped forward in his bonds, dead to the world although the gentle rise and fall of his broad chest showed that he was not in fact dead. As the smell of cooking flesh gradually permeated their chamber, wafting its way from some other part of the cave complex, more than one of the captives wished they could have joined Kurdyla in blissful unconsciousness.

Clovis sniffled, unable to stop her tears. "Oh, poor Wexford! He never hurt anybeast - not even the searats, when he had a chance to do so during our revolt. He was a good friend, and I really did like him. I never realized how much until now. Oh, this is horrible!"

Granholm, tied up alongside Clovis, wished he could offer her a comforting embrace. "Aye, those weasels are murderous fiends, all right," the squirrel pronounced grimly, "an' if there was any justice in the world, they'd have the same thing happen to them as they've done to our poor Wexy. Why, if Kurdyla had been able to get free, I bet he wouldn't have left a single one of them villainous cannibals alive!"

"But he didn't," Clovis sniffed, glancing over at the otter's still, head-hung form. "And now there's nothing to stop those abominable weasels from coming and harvesting us like cabbages, one at a time!" Although she was close to hysterics, her voice dropped to a tremulous murmur. "I don't want to die, Granholm. Not like this."

"Call me Granny - everybeast does," he said with forced cheer. "And I know what you mean, Clovis. Nothing wrong with dying, if it's in battle and you've got a fighting chance. Every creature should be allowed the choice of a brave death or a peaceful one. Didn't look like we'd have a chance at either during our seasons of slavery under the searats, but fate gave us a way out of our bondage. If it happened once, it could happen again, here. So don't give up yet."

"Even if it does, it'll be too late for Wexford ... " Clovis's tears flowed anew. "He was such a nice mouse! Oh, how I wish I could close my nose the way I can close my eyes! I dearly don't want to die, Granholm - Granny - but I almost hope they come for me next, so that I don't have to suffer through this happening to any more of my friends."

"Chin up, Clovis my gal," the squirrel soothed. "There may be hope yet. You saw how those weasels panicked when Kurdyla tried to break loose? You think they would have reacted like that if they hadn't thought there was a good chance he could've freed himself, and maybe us too? Perhaps we're not as inescapably bound as they'd like us to believe ... "

Granholm contorted himself so that he could get his jaws around the vines that confined them. As Clovis looked on hopefully, Granholm set to work with his sharp incisors, gnawing fiercely at the strands to see what he could accomplish.

Meanwhile, around on the other side of the wide stone column to which all the woodlanders were tied, Fallace the hedgehog was doing her own part, in her own gruff way, to keep up her companions' spirits. The task wasn't made any easier when the unsettling cooking aromas began to fill the cavern.

"How long do you reckon we've been down here?" wondered a stout mouse named Lekkas, more to take his mind off Wexford's fate than anything else.

Fallace shrugged with her bonds. "Impossible t' say, really. No way of knowin' how long we was out fer, up in that valley. Could be th' middle of th' day, or th' middle of th' night ... not that that'd make a hill o' beans' difference to us down 'ere."

"At least they didn't get us all," Lekkas said with a trace of defiant optimism.

"Oh? Whaddya mean?"

"Well, hadn't you noticed? Browder's not here."

"Ain't he? I c'n only see less'n half of us, tied with my back t' this spine-forsaken rock pillar. Never occurred t' me t' ask, tho' I guess I'd o' heard his foolish chatter by now, come t' think on it. Hey," she shouted to be heard by all, "anybeast seen Browder since we woke up in here?"

Her question was met by a few scattered negatives and a general silence from the rest.

"See?" said Lekkas. "Browder's still free. Maybe he'll be able to help us?"

"Unless these barbarians scoffed that greedyguts first, 'fore we all woke up. Could be they've a special fondness fer hare."

Lekkas immediately slouched in deflation. "Oh. Hadn't thought of that ... "

"Aw," scoffed Syrek the searat, "even if that flopeared buffoon is still alive an' free up there, ain't naught 'ee could do fer us. Prob'ly don't even know where we are ... "

"That's a good guess, rat, since _we_ don't even know where we're at." Fallace fastened her gaze upon the two shrews across from her. "But somebeasts here ought t' know whether Browder was ever down 'ere. Hey, you two! Was there a hare down here with us anytime 'fore we came awake?"

The two shrews glowered back at her. The duo had proven quite resistant to engaging in conversation of any sort, refusing even to give their names and confirming only facts the slaves would have been able to figure out on their own anyway. Perhaps they were as in the dark as anybeast and too stubbornly proud to admit it, perhaps they were enraged over the fate of their two comrades, or perhaps they were just naturally rude and nasty. Whatever their reasons, they were hardly shaping up to be the allies for which the woodlanders had hoped.

"Naw, ain't no hare been down here," one shrew finally deigned to answer with the usual ill-mannered abruptness. "But yer ratface is right - won't do ya a lick o' good if'n he is still free up topside. Only way anybeast gets down 'ere is if these damnable Flitchy's brings 'em down ... an' then it's all over for 'em."

"That's right," the other shrew affirmed. "'sides, he wouldn't be able t' get near this place wi'out gettin' overcome by those sleepy-fumes 'imself. Only way you'll see that hare here is as part o' th' Flitchy's menu."

"You never did tell us how you were captured," Wharff called to the shrews from around his side of the column. "You locals, or what?"

"None o' yer business, waterdog!" the first shrew snapped with far more vehemence than the innocent question warranted.

"Yeah, shut yer gob!" the second added defensively.

Fallace glanced aside at Syrek. "These shrews're actin' more like vermin than I ever seen you do, 'Rek."

"Yah, thanks," the rat muttered. "I think ... "

A scuffling and chattering came their way as a couple of the Flitch-aye-aye emerged from a side tunnel bearing a rough-woven greasy sack between them. Most of the slaves averted their eyes in disgust and sadness as a new batch of gnawed-clean bones were spilled from the sack with a clatter atop the pile of shrew remains.

"Already?" Wharff gulped. "They shore made quick work o' poor Wexy!"

One of the Flitch-aye-aye hopped over to the otter, prodding Wharff sharply in the shoulder with its paw. "Teeheehee! One-a mousee feed alla Flitch-aye-aye for day! Bigga beastee like you, feed alla us for twoday, mabbee threee! Eehee!"

With a quick snap of his neck, Wharff jerked his head down and brought his jaws round the weasel's paw. The taste of the unwashed flesh and fur was awful, but the otter was able to take a nice chunk of meat out of his tormentor. Wharff spat it back into the screaming vermin's face. "Ptoo! There, see 'ow _you_ like it!"

"Whaaahaaaoooow!" The injured Flitch-aye-aye howled and danced in circles, clutching at his bleeding claw.

Granholm, who'd suspended his vine-chewing activities at the approach of the enemy, grinned wickedly. "Good goin', Wharff matey!"

The two Flitch-aye-aye converged on the otter, showering him with enraged punches of retribution that were largely ineffective, doing little more than bruising him slightly under the fur. Singly, these weasels truly were weaklings, and would not normally pose a threat to any but the smallest of creatures.

The uninjured assailant, seeking to land a blow on Wharff's face, found his own paw caught by the otter's teeth, and lost all the skin off his knuckles as he pulled it free. "C'mon, is that th' best ye can do?" Wharff taunted.

The Flitch-aye-aye retreated a few steps, glaring at the otter. "Mabbee you next-a, makkee dinner outta you!"

"Gah, I hopes you do, an' I stick in alla yer ugly throats an' choke you!"

As the two weasels made to exit the cave, the rat Syrek called out to them, "Hey, wait a beat, fellers! I gotta talk t' ya!"

Lekkas regarded his fellow prisoner sternly as the two Flitch-aye-aye approached. "Syrek, what are you doing?"

But the searat ignored the mouse's question. One of the weasels, still painfully grasping its claw, said, "Yeah, whatcha wantee, bigga ugleemouse?"

"I ain't no mouse. I'm a rat, an' I don't belong with these others. Ya gotta see that. I'm on yer side. Lemme go, an' I'll help ya. You wouldn't wanna eat me anyways - I'm tough an' dried out from all me seasons at sea. Why, I bet I'd taste worse'n any shrew! So, lemme free, whattya say?"

"You helpee Flitch-aye-aye?" The weasel sounded skeptical. "How rattee-mouse helpee us?"

Syrek said, "There's sumpthin' I gotta tell yer leader ... er, chief, or whatever it is y' got here. It's sumpthin' important that he'll really wanna know about."

"Whatwhat? You tellee now, rattyface!"

"Syrek, don't!" Lekkas said, finally guessing what it was the rat had in mind.

Syrek swallowed. "You ain't got alla us - "

"Syrek, don't you dare, you traitor!" Fallace growled.

"There's more o' us above ground," the searat forced out. Then, for good measure, he added, totally off the cuff, "An' some of 'em might know th' secret o' yer sleep smoke. They'll be able t' come down 'ere without bein' put out, an' then they'll slay you all fer what you done!"

"Nobeastee know our secret!" the weasel decried, but there was a hint of doubt in its voice.

"You wanna take that chance?" Syrek challenged with all the bravado he could muster. Straining to imagine what might strike the most fear into the Flitch-aye-aye, he added, "How'd y' like a whole horde o' beasts streamin' down 'ere, weapons drawn fer blood? Hares, an' squirrels, an' badgers - "

"Badgerses! Badgerses!" This threw the two vermin into a total and complete panic. One fell onto its knees, paws clutched at the sides of its face in despair. The other leaned toward the rat and queried, "Bigga shinee red badger, alla steelee red?"

Syrek didn't know what the frantic creature was jabbering about, but he played along. "Yeah, a big red badger. That's what we got up there, an' it'll be down 'ere if you don't lemme help ye ... "

"Redmetal badger! Aiiiiieeeee ... !" The two weasels fled back down the side tunnel, their terrified wails echoing after them long after they were gone.

Fallace glared aside over Lekkas's head at Syrek. "Rat, you are the lowest scum on land an' sea ... "

"Aw, stuff it, y' old pincusion!" Syrek retorted in a low hiss. "Whaddya think I'm tryin' ta do? If I c'n get free, mebbe I can get me paws on a weapon an' cut you all loose!"

The hedgehog's eyes went wide. "So _that's_ what ye're on about?"

"Course. An' I'm th' only one o' us who's got any chance o' pullin' this off. They'd never trust a woodlander t' betray their own ... " He shot a glance toward the two shrews. "Well, most woodlanders, anyway. But don'tcha go makin' all nice wi' me now that y' know my ruse. This play'll only work if they see you blowin' yer bile at me like you was b'fore. So you keep snipin' at me, an' I'll growl back at you, just like I really am traitor scum."

"Gonna be hard playin' mad at you, now that I know, but I'll do my best." Fallace glanced after the path taken by the two flustered Flitch-aye-aye. "Won't mean much, though, if it don't get you free ... "

"I ain't worried 'bout that," said Syrek. "You see th' way they turned t' jelly when I told 'em there was a badger up there? Dunno what that were all about, but from their fear I'd wager they'll wanna know all I c'n tell 'em. An' I'll make it clear I won't say another word 'til they cut me loose!"

"Unless you got 'em so scared that they all run away, leavin' us all tied up," the hedgehog speculated. "Those were some mighty frightened weasels ...

"Aw, we could free ourselves, if we know they ain't comin' to check on us. Better bein' left alone that gettin' et, I say ... whup, 'ere they come again, y' old stickle-scragged, nasty-nosed, muck-spiked pricklebag!"

"Same t' you, ya scum-pawed, scaly-tailed, grog-breathed traitor!"

A small group of Flitch-aye-aye stopped before Syrek, brandishing an assortment of knives and short blades stolen from the travellers. Rather than cut the rat loose, they painstakingly untied his bonds just as they had with Wexford so that the others would remain bound. Then Syrek was escorted in their midst down the side corridor, the weapons pointing at every part of him to ensure that he didn't try anything. Just before he was lost to view, the searat glanced over his shoulder and gave his fellow slaves a conspiratorial wink.

And then he was gone.

"I just hope this works," muttered Fallace.

"I just hope that rat was telling us the truth," added Lekkas.


	18. Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty-Four

Browder and Klystra waited until the sun was well up before commencing their assault on the misty basin.

The hare had not slept well. For one thing, he'd dozed away so much of the previous day that he didn't really feel the need for slumber. For another, the prospect of venturing into possible danger was most unsettling to the pacifistic player; Browder hadn't felt such a case of butterflies since just before he'd departed for Salamandastron the summer before, to play the part of agent provocateur to lure Urthfist out of the mountain fortress to Mossflower. Also, their night had been spent on the cold, open plains without benefit of any warming flames. This time, Browder had not needed any other beast to tell him what folly it would be to attract attention to themselves with a campfire under the circumstances.

Browder finally drifted off halfway between midnight and dawn, only to come shivering to wakefulness again before sunrise. Bleary-eyed and fuzzy-headed, but knowing further sleep would be impossible, he reluctantly roused himself and shared a meagre breakfast with Klystra from the diminishing supply of provisions in his travel pack.

"At least we made it through the night without gettin' gassed an' snatched ourselves, wot? I say, do you really think there's some nefarious tribe o' savages behind this whole bloomin' rigamarole?"

Klystra had already explained to Browder how Urthblood had once in his travels encountered a tribe of weasels who lived underground and used smoldering herbs to put asleep and capture hapless travellers. The Badger Lord had discovered their secret and used the compounds within the narcotic herbs to refine his own Flitchaye gas, named for the tribe from which he'd borrowed the idea. It was this gas which had allowed him to conquer Salamandastron so effortlessly.

"Cannot be coincidence," the falcon asserted. "Smell of Flitchaye gas, you falling asleep ... must be Flitchaye here."

"Yes, but didn't you say those frightful nasties were way up in the northern reaches of Mossflower? Wot th' devil would they be doin' all the way down here on the bally Western Plains?"

"Know not," replied Klystra. "Is mystery."

Their breakfast concluded and the sun fully risen above the distant gray trees of Mossflower Woods to the east, hare and falcon began making their preparations for the rescue of their companions. Their first step was to return to the lip of the basin. Sure enough, the misty vapors still hung unchanging over the valley floor, the same as always. Even though the new day was blossoming into another clear and mild foretaste of spring, the beshrouded lowland maintained its own aura of gloomy menace, now that Browder knew what was probably going on here.

"Well, no time like the present, wot?"

Browder moistened a kerchief and tied it tightly over his snout, reminding himself that he would have to be careful to breathe only through his protected nose once he was down amongst the mist. Similarly outfitting Klystra was more of a challenge, owing to the bird's bill and the shape of his head, but with Browder's assistance, the falcon too was soon masked with a damp cloth.

While Klystra made a series of low circles and swooping crisscrosses over the basin, Browder descended the slope on footpaw to retrace his tracks as best he could. He still held out hope that he might discover all the former slaves lying where they'd fallen, asleep and unharmed.

Those hopes were quickly dashed. Not only could he find no trace of the other woodlanders, but their tracks had virtually disappeared as well. The springy moss and grass didn't hold pawprints long, and those made by the travellers yesterday were already gone. The rocky stretches were no better, since wet paw marks had had plenty of time to dry. It was as if the earth had simply swallowed them up.

It didn't take long at all for Browder's eyes to begin stinging and watering. The damp kerchief across his nose filtered enough of the sleep-causing vapors to keep him from falling unconscious, but for his eyes there was no help except constant blinking, and that provided only partial relief. The fumes hadn't bothered him nearly as much when he'd been moving quickly through the basin and avoiding the denser banks of fog, but now that he was scouring the ground step-by-step with the mist all around him, Browder was suffering. He only hoped the moist cloth over his face would be enough to protect him from the stupefying gas.

It occurred to him that this mist must be coming from somewhere, since it clearly wasn't evaporating off the bare rock or being breathed up through the grass and moss. Venturing into one of the thicker regions of the fog, eyes asquint, Browder uncovered a low mound of earth that was visibly venting the narcotic smoke. The pile of earth crumbled under one solid kick from the hare's powerful hindlimb, revealing a narrow well of sorts that went deep into the ground - how deep, Browder couldn't tell through the obscuring haze that slowly billowed up the shaft. He guessed it was a chimney of some kind that led up from some underground chamber where the villains must be burning batches of their sweetly noxious herbs. And, to judge by the quantities of the smoky mist that perpetually hung over the valley, Browder estimated there had to be vents like this one dotted all over the basin floor and constantly tended by their nefarious caretakers below.

Browder staggered out of the mist into a clearer patch of air. As he stood there rubbing his eyes, he heard Klystra calling to him from across the basin. Unable to make out the falcon through the fog, Browder began running toward the cawing voice. "Keep soundin' off, Klystra chap!" he shouted ahead of him as he ran. Can't make you out, don'tcha know! Gonna hafta follow your bally chirps!"

It was a good run to where the raptor stood, and being able to breathe only through his nostrils, Browder was feeling giddy and lightheaded by the time he drew up to Klystra. Even in this state, the hare needed no explanation for the summons; he could see well enough for himself why Klystra had called him to this spot.

One of the slave's travel cloaks lay discarded upon the ground.

"Well, that's jolly nice," Browder opined. "Too bad there's nobeast in it. Don't suppose you happened to spy out any actual bonafide creatures while you were up there?"

Klystra shook his great feathered head. "No creatures, no other clothes or supplies. I cover entire basin. This all."

"Well, then. Guess we'll hafta work with wot we got?" Browder knelt to examine the cast-off cloak more closely. "Hmm ... looks mouse-sized. Don't know which one of our chappies was wearin' this particular cape, tho'. But with all th' clothing we've got being wot was on our backs when we left the searat lumber thingy, nobeast in our little parade would just go an' leave something like this behind. So, either this is where they fell, or else this cloak came off when those rude blighters came to drag 'em away, or else this is where they were dragged to. Let's hope it's the second scenario, since knowin' where our pals were last will be th' best help in puzzlin' out where they are now."

Browder stood and began walking around the immediate area. "Now, if these're th' same kidnappin' ruffians you told me 'bout, they'll be livin' underground, right? So, they must have some way of comin' an' goin' 'tween their diabolical lair an' th' surface, stands to reason. Wot would make a good door? A rock, maybe?"

While Browder tramped around the vicinity, testing the solidity of various rocky patches and formations with footpaw thrusts and bodily shoves, Klystra began picking at the softer ground with his talons. He found what they sought mere paces from where the cloak had lain, much closer to the discarded garment than the area Browder was presently searching. "Here, craagh! Here!"

The hare scout rushed over at the falcon's excited cry. Klystra hooked his sharp claws into a section of mossy ground and pulled. A whole swath of it came up in one piece, revealing itself to be a cleverly concealed hatch.

"Ah! These savages do know a thing or two 'bout camouflage tactics, wot? Let's hope that's the only thing they're skilled at, wot?" Browder crouched, paws on knees as he gazed down into the revealed tunnel. "Um ... wot now?"

"We go down."

Browder glanced up at the bird. "Uh, it's pretty jolly dark down there ... "

"Then make torches. But we go down."

The hare looked around them. No trees or bushes grew within the small valley. If they wanted to make torches, they'd have to trek all the way up out of the basin to find dry wood, then come all the way back down to this spot. Some inner voice told Browder that taking such extra time would not be the best thing for his captive companions.

"Naw," he concluded with a wave of his paw, "nobeast can see in total darkness. Must be some light down there, wot? Otherwise, they'd all be stumblin' 'round blind, runnin' into each other. Besides, this tunnel looks pretty narrow. We'd be as like t' set ourselves on fire as light our bally way. Now, wot've we got in th' way of weapons?"

"I _am_ weapon," Klystra reminded the hare, clacking his sharply curved beak and flexing the deadly talons which held up the mossy hatch.

"Ah, yes, well then, I'll leave most of th' fightin' to you, if it comes to that." Browder pulled from his pack the closest thing to a weapon that he had: a small utility knife, its entire blade no longer than his paw was wide. "Well, I s'pose this'll be good for cutting loose our friends, if they're tied ... " He looked to Klystra. "These Flitchy folks, you happen t' know what kind o' fighters they are?"

"No." Klystra again shook his head.

"Oh. Not very jolly informative, wot?"

"Go now," the falcon commanded. "You first, I follow."

"Me first? Why?"

"Smaller than me. I get stuck, you can go on."

"Oh, now that's a cheery thought." Browder hefted his poor excuse for a blade. "I'll just take on the ol' enemy horde with this, shall I?"

"You will do what you can. You go now." Klystra gave Browder a soft blow in the small of the back with his closed beak, sending the hare one footpaw down into the sloped tunnel.

"Okay, okay! No need to be a hooligan about it!" Gripping his knife tightly in paw, Browder flopped onto his belly and started crawling his way down the tunnel, since there clearly would be no room to stand within the cramped passage.

Within several body lengths, almost all light had disappeared ... and that was even before Klystra folded his wings tight against his side and squirmed into the tunnel after the hare. Ropey weeds protruded from every surface of the tunnel wall, trailing against face and body like limp, damp fingers giving lifeless caresses.

And lifeless was how the root-clogged burrow seemed to be. Although he could see nothing, and hear nothing except his own breathing and the struggles of his larger comrade behind him, Browder felt certain there was no other creature anywhere near them. In time, emboldened by the lack of resistance, the hare got up onto his feet and picked up his pace, proceeding in a crouched walk rather than a belly crawl. He wasn't sure whether it was just his eyes playing tricks on him, but Browder imagined he could see a faint green glow coming from somewhere ahead. The tunnel had sloped downward the entire way, and Browder guessed they were now quite far below the surface. He held his knife paw up over his brow to ward off the worst of the dangling vegetation and keep it from hitting him in the face, and kept his sensitive ears cocked back as well.

"Hey, Klystra chap," he whisper-called over his shoulder, "have a care you don't let these roots 'n' weeds snag yer kerchief. I'll need you awake down there, don'tcha know."

"I ... remember ... that," the falcon grunted from farther back along the passage, torturously pushing his way through the clinging tunnel with just his powerful legs, since his wings were worse than useless in such tight quarters.

"I say, sounds like you're laggin' behind me a fair jump. Maybe I'll just slow my bally step a bit until you can - whoaaa!"

Browder hadn't been watching where he was going, and suddenly found himself stepping out into empty air. A dim green netherworld tumbled about him, and he hit the rock floor of the cavern hard. The impact knocked the wind out of him, and his small knife went clattering away from him.

Something sharp jabbed him as he sat there, blinking away the stars. "I say, Klystra chappie, watch where you're sticking those talons of yours! Ow!"

More jabs came, and Browder's vision suddenly cleared like a veil being lifted aside, to reveal a circle of unclad weasel-type creatures encircling him. All bore primitive spears or metal blades aimed in his direction, and the fang-filled smiles on their faces as illuminated by the ghostly green glow were not at all friendly.

00000000000

"Killee longears!" the chief of the Flitch-aye-aye commanded from the outside of the circle. "Make 'im dead!"

Recovering his wits, Browder started using all four paws to ward off the spear thrusts of the slight weasels, avoiding the metal blades altogether as best he could. Although the player hare was unversed in the ways of the warrior, the Flitch-aye-aye were little better, and he was able to dodge or fend off the worst of their lunges with his superior strength and naturally quick reflexes. But his opponents had the advantage in numbers, and under their leader's exhortations they were being whipped into a killing frenzy. Browder knew his time was short, and that at any moment one of the more audacious weasels might get lucky and sneak a crippling or mortal blow past his flailing paws.

Browder threw back his head and yelled, as loudly as he could through his mask, "Redwall! Redwaaallll!"

Instantly all the weasels paused in their assault, regarding the hare quizzically. Browder, breathing hard, returned their stares.

"Hey, wotcha know? I'd always heard that works ... "

"Dontcha stop, Flitch-aye-aye!" their chieftain urged from behind them. "Slayee longears, quickquick! Killim dead!"

Browder popped up onto his footpaws and pressed his back to the rockface, paws raised in a faux boxer's stance. "Back, I say! Back, you beastly rascals! Before I hafta jolly well lay some o' you out flat!"

To his immense surprise, this show of bravado gave the horde another momentary pause, although the bloodthirsty expressions of anticipation never left their faces as they stood with spears and blades raised. Browder glanced up. The opening from which he'd fallen was directly over his head. One good leap might be enough for him to get his paws on the lip of the tunnel mouth securely so that he could haul himself to safety. Then again, he might get a spear in his back before he could effect his retreat.

His avenue of escape was suddenly cut off as a large feathered head, formidable curved beak partially masked beneath a kerchief, poked itself out of the tunnel above. "Creeaaaagh!"

The effect was instantaneous and dramatic. At the first glimpse of the mighty raptor's head and the deafening warcry it unleashed into the cavern, every spear and blade fell to the floor with a clatter. Half the weasels fled into other tunnels, while the remainder dropped to their knees cowering and bowing before the bird of prey.

"Hey, this works, wot?"

Klystra, having had to wriggle his way painstakingly through the vegetation-choked passage, was moving slowly enough so that he didn't fall from the hole as Browder had. Now, with his kerchief-draped beak and head protruding from the aperture and the enemy effectively cowed, Klystra squirmed the rest of the way from the confining shaft. At first it looked as if he might fall, and Browder positioned himself to brace the bird by its tunic-clad breast (although in truth Klystra more likely would have crushed the hare with his sheer weight had he come down atop Browder), but it turned out the falcon needed no help. With his front half liberated, Klystra hooked first one talon then the other over the lip of the tunnel mouth, then pushed himself out into empty air, unfolding his majestic wings in the scant moment before he began to plummet, and flapped his way to a reasonably soft and dignified landing.

Browder and the weasels alike scattered to make room for the descending bird. But while the vermin remained bowed, the hare sauntered right over to the falcon and gave Klystra a companionly pat on the wing. "Sure took your bally time, wot? I was beginning to wonder whether you'd ever show." He surveyed the prostrate weasels, who seemed to have struck almost reverent poses toward Klystra. "Looks like just what th' situation called for. Um, I do believe that frightful sourpuss in th' back there's the leader o' this rude rabble ... "

The kneeling ranks of Flitch-aye-aye parted as Klystra stepped right up to their chief. "No hurtee, Lord of Stoneheads! No hurtee, pleeez!"

"Lord of Stoneheads?" Browder and Klystra exchanged puzzled glances in the glowing green dimness, which they could now see radiated from phosphorescent rocks embedded in walls, floors and ceiling. "Wotcha mean?"

"Oh, d' Flitch-aye-aye no forgettee Lord of Stoneheads, we don't, we don't! We 'member alla time, great owlbird we musta obey, since dim days of our tribe!"

"Explain yourselves," Klystra commanded.

The weasel chief gazed up uncertainly. "Thisee a test?"

Klystra thought about it a moment. "Yes. Test."

The vermin leader tried to put on his best ingratiating smile. "Longee long ago, when Flitch-aye-aye were just Flitchaye, familee of Stonehead, great owlbird of all owlbirds, sayee we must behave, must obeyee alla Stoneheads, f'revermore!"

Browder whispered into Klystra's feathery earhole, "Yikes! They been livin' underground so long they can't tell a falcon from an owl! Must be your mask."

"Seasons ago," the weasel continued, "bigga redbadger come, slay many o' da Flitchaye, steal secret o' sleepyweeds. Flitchaye who survive made new home here, now we d' Flitch-aye-aye. But we nevva forget Stoneheads, nevva! Flitch-aye-aye obey great owlbirds, even after redbadger makka us come here!"

Browder and Klystra stared at each other in silence for a long time. Neither had to ask who the "redbadger" was, and it fit with the history of Urthblood as they knew it. But the part about Stoneheads and owlbirds was clearly some old superstition, perhaps rooted in truth but now a fearful myth that still held these primitive beasts under its sway.

"Um ... bigga redbadger up there rightnow?" the weasel chief asked tremulously, pointing a claw toward the cave ceiling.

Klystra puffed out his tunic-clad chest proudly. "Stonehead Greatowl protect you from redbadger, long as you do what Stonehead Greatowl says."

"O, yessa, yessa, we will!"

"Good. Browder, get knife. Now we go find friends."

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The Flitch-aye-aye were as good as their word, conducting Browder and Klystra straight to the captured slaves. When it was revealed what had happened to Wexford - and what had been planned for the other slaves - the falcon had all he could do to keep himself from slaying every weasel within reach of his beak and talons. While Browder set to work slicing the bonds of his companions and the two unfriendly shrews, Klystra addressed the cringing Flitch-aye-aye in a booming voice full of menace.

"Hear me, and hear me well! Flitch-aye-aye will nevermore trap and eat innocent goodbeasts! Never again! Lord Stonehead Greatowl command it!"

"Y-y-yes, greatee one! Nevva eat nicee beasts nomore! D' Flitch-aye-aye hear 'n' obey bigga Stonehead!"

"You better," Klystra warned, leaning forward so that his beak was right next to the weasel chief's ear. "Else Stonehead Greatowl come hunt you down ... and bring bigga redbadger Urthblood with him!"

The vermin chieftain squeezed his eyes shut and let out a terrified whine.

"Now, begone from sight - all of you!"

All the Flitch-aye-aye scuttled and scurried out of the cavern as fast as their scrawny legs would carry them, leaving the main chamber all to the woodlanders.

"Impressive performance," Granholm complimented their avian savior as the player hare cut him loose. "Daresay it's better than any you've ever given, Browder ... tho' by the look of it, you've been playing warrior. I see you took a few slashes there ... "

Browder glanced down at his battered paws. "Wot? Oh, that. Yes, these hooligans tried t' make a pincushion outta me when I first dropped in on 'em. Seemed t' know I was comin' since they had me surrounded 'fore I'd even landed."

"I can guess the reason for that," the mouse Lekkas grumbled to Fallace.

"Lucky for me," Browder went on, "they're as useless with weapons as I am. Guess they've become so dependent on lullin' their victims t' sleep, they've forgotten how to fight, if they ever knew how in th' first place. An' a good thing, too!"

Kurdyla was still unconscious, so Granholm and Wharff supported the otter between them. Looking over the freed prisoners as they started flexing their legs and tails and massaging where the tight vine rope had cut off their circulation, Browder observed, "We seem t' be one rat short. Or did those heathens go an' scoff Syrek too?"

"Wish they had," Lekkas answered, and told Browder and Klystra all about the "deal" the searat had made with the Flitch-aye-aye to get himself free, ostensibly to help free the rest if he could manage it. "Looks like he told them just enough to buy you one good pummeling, Browder. I'm sorry ... "

"Wot for, wot? T'wasn't you that ratted me out, or tried t' make me porous 'round my middle ... but here comes the blighter who did."

Syrek came striding out of the side tunnel, a somewhat confused expression on his face at the sudden unexpected flight of the weasels. "Ah, so that s'plains it!" he said at the sight of the hare and falcon.

Fallace scowled at Syrek. "So, y' was gonna try 'n' get a blade t' free us, huh? Looks like we didn't need yer help after all ... "

"Well, it ain't like I had all that much time!" the rat protested. "They 'ad me under surveillance th' whole time, grillin' me fer information! I woulda come fer you soon as I was able!"

"Yeah. Maybe. But in the meantime, your slips of lips almost got Browder here killed!" The other former slaves didn't know whether to believe Syrek or not. In all fairness he hadn't been gone all that long. And he would have had to at least pretend to be cooperating with the Flitch-aye-aye, if he wanted to stay alive long enough to do his companions any good. "So, what'd you talk about all that time you was with 'em?"

Syrek threw a glance at the two shrews. "Yah, well, we talked about a whole lot, an' some of it t'was pretty int'restin'. 'Bout a character named Snoga, fer one thing ... "

The shrews froze in the midst of slipping out of their cut bonds.

"Snoga?" Several of the woodlanders tried the name on their tongues. "Who's that s'posed t' be?" Fallace asked.

"He was lookin' t' make an alliance - "

"Traitor!" one of the shrews screamed, scooping up a sword from the floor that had been discarded in haste by one of the terrified weasels and dashing across the cave toward the rat. Before anybeast knew what was happening, the shrew had plunged his blade into Syrek's chest.

The searat stood for a moment, eyes wide in shocked surprise, then fell onto his face as the shrew withdrew the sword.

Into the stunned silence that followed, Browder muttered, "I say, that was bally bad form."

Lekkas rushed over to Syrek and bent down to feel for a pulse, but found none. "He's dead!" Lekkas glared at the shrew. "You murdered him!"

"Yeah, what'd you go an' do that for?" Fallace demanded. "He was about t' tell us somethin' - coulda been important."

"Aw, he was a traitor," the slayer shrew maintained. "A no-good dirty rat. You heard that hare yerselves - those Flitcheys was waitin' fer him in ambush when he got down here. How'd they've known to be there, if'n that rat didn't tell 'em?" He wiped his blade clean on Syrek's corpse. "He was a low-down seascum, an' whatever 'ee was about t' tell ya woulda just been lies t' save his own skin, like ev'rythin' else that spills from th' mouths o' vermin like his sort."

"You don't know that!" Clovis accused, unexpectedly moved by the death of the only rat in their company. "He was one of us! It was our place to decide whether he was being truthful, not yours! You had no right!"

"Oh yeah?" the shrew challenged, keeping his grip tight on his borrowed sword as his comrade stepped forward to stand at his side.

"Enough!" Klystra stalked into the middle of the fray. "What's done is done," the bird decreed. "Dead cannot be made to live again. You, shrews, free to leave with us, but not march with us. Now, let us go find weapons and supplies Flitchaye stole from all ... "

00000000000

"Bad news, I'm afraid," Lekkas announced as he and Browder and a hedgehog named Hegedus met up with the others back in the main chamber. The trio clearly carried enough arms to outfit their entire group, but only about half the proper number of bedrolls, and no sign of food provisions at all.

"Oh, no," Clovis groaned. "I don't think I can stand anymore bad news ... "

"No use beatin' 'bout a dead tree, so you might's well tell us flat out," said Fallace. "What's th' damage?"

"Those savages ripped and shredded a lot of our bedding, so it looks like we'll all be sharing blankets for the rest of our nights between here and Redwall." Lekkas scowled. "Since these barbarians sleep on moss and don't wear clothes, they have no respect or appreciation for a nice soft blanket or finely-woven garment. But that's not the worst of it. The greedy heathens seem to have gone and scoffed every morsel of our food supplies, and punctured a lot of our water pouches too."

"What, wasn't Wexford enuff for 'em?" Fallace cried out in indignation.

"Worse yet, their own food - the roots and slime they nibble when they don't have any passersby to nosh on - is barely fit for eating. We're in a real fix, and no mistake!"

"Mebbe we could cook up a few of 'em fer th' journey, give 'em a taste o' their own medicine," Wharff grumbled.

Clovis turned on the otter. "Don't even joke about such a thing, Wharff!"

The chastised waterbeast shrank under the withering gaze of the much smaller mouse. "Yah, well, they'd prob'ly taste all gamey anyways," Wharff muttered to himself.

Lekkas nodded toward the various blades that Hegedus had bundled in his arms. "About the only bright spot is the weapons. I was able to retrieve all of ours, along with quite a few others from these villains' prior victims. Don't know how much good that does us, though, since cold steel's no good for filling an empty belly. Maybe if we meet up with some goodbeasts along the way, we might be able to trade some of these blades for food, but aside from that ... "

"Well, we'll just hafta jolly well work something out once we're underway," Browder said as he passed out the surviving bedrolls and water pouches to willing paws, "'cos this hare for one is eager t' put as many pawsteps 'tween myself an' this place as I can 'fore I bunk down for th' night, an' I wager I'm not alone in my bally sentiments, wot?"

Most of the others nodded and murmured their agreement.

"Then we leave now," Klystra announced.

"Right," said Granholm, "now, which way out of here?"

Browder scanned the faces around him, but all were blank, returning his gaze expectantly. Of course, if they'd all been put to sleep by the Flitchaye gas - or Flitch-aye-aye gas, as the case might be - they would have no recollection of how they'd gotten down here.

"The same way we came in, I guess," Browder said, leading the way toward the tunnel he and Klystra had used to infiltrate the Flitch-aye-aye domain. "Follow me, chaps an' chappesses!"

00000000000

The subterranean weasels had a few small springs in their cave complex from which they took their drinking water. Their former prisoners used one of these trickles now to dampen kerchiefs as protection against the narcotic mist as Browder and Klystra had done, so that they would not be overcome again when they finally regained the surface.

It was discovered that the Flitch-aye-aye had a large log-shaped rock that could be rolled over to the base of the wall below the tunnel mouth from which Browder had fallen. By stepping atop it once it was in place, even the mice in their party had little trouble hoisting themselves up into the earthen tunnel. Working together, the three biggest and strongest of them - Browder, Wharff and Granholm - managed to get the still-unconscious Kurdyla and the deceased Syrek up into the shaft and haul them toward the daylight.

Much to the squirrel and otter's surprise, Kurdyla stirred and came awake halfway to the surface. Granholm and Wharff worried that the berserker beast might be in the same frenzied, bloodthirsty state as when he was robbed of his awareness, but Kurdyla seemed abnormally subdued, neither wrathful nor alarmed to be squeezed into a narrow, dank, lightless tunnel. He uttered just a few low murmurings as he followed their urgings to climb upward.

The mice and hedgehogs who were already up were surprised and delighted to see Kurdyla clawing his way out of the tunnel. They all shook his paw and slapped him on back and shoulders, heartily welcoming him back to the land of the living as he stood blinking and smiling slightly, as if he wasn't entirely sure where he was. Or who he was, for that matter. He looked almost like a lost little child.

"Must still be dazed from them knocks 'ee took on 'is noggin," Fallace whispered to Clovis.

Klystra stayed down in the cavern until all the woodlanders were evacuated, strutting prominently back and forth to keep as high a profile as possible in case the Flitch-aye-aye reneged on their promise not to cause trouble.

When Browder and the falcon were the last two creatures left in the cave, the hare asked, "You wanna go first, Klystra chap, so I can give you a push in the ol' tailfeathers in case you get stuck?"

"No, you first. Didn't get stuck coming down, so shouldn't get stuck going up."

"Ah, well, if y' do, we'll all just take hold o' yer beak an' give you a jolly good pull, wot?"

Klystra swiped a wing playfully at Browder - or as playfully as a falcon could do anything. "Go."


	19. Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-Five

Syrek was carried up out of the valley and buried in a simple grave near the edge of the basin, his resting place marked with a flat stone. Nobeast was sure what to say in remembrance, since none had been close to the searat, and at the end it was impossible to know whether he'd been friend or traitor.

While half the company tended to the rat's burial, the rest toiled down in the lowland, seeking out every one of the vent mounds they could find and filling them in with dirt and moss. If the Flitch-aye-aye were to return to their bad old ways, they would have a lot of work to do.

As the woodlanders were finishing this task, however, Klystra let slip a statement that suggested the cannibalistic weasels would have scant opportunity to revert to evil.

"Must report this place to Lord Urthblood," the falcon announced. "He will want to take care of it."

Granholm, who was one of several in their party who felt the Flitch-aye-aye had gotten off lightly for their crimes, looked to the raptor. "Take care of it?"

"Urthblood not suffer such creatures to live," Klystra said simply. "Will want this danger ... eliminated."

A dangerous grin lit the squirrel's features. "In that case, if he needs any extra paws to help with that, I got two I'd be glad to lend to the task!"

It was early afternoon when all the surviving former slaves gathered in a line along the top of the basin, paws linked. Now that most of the earthen vents for dispersing the narcotic smoke throughout the valley had been disabled, the air down in the circular depression had begun to clear under the bright sunshine and fresh, late winter breezes. Stripped of its misty veil, the landscape below them seemed as innocent as any ordinary patch of plains or woodland; nobeast would have suspected from looking at it that this was a place of such terror and death.

"Goodbye, Wexford," Clovis solemnly intoned.

"Aye," said Wharff, "yer bones may be restin' down wi' them villains, but ye'll live in our 'earts always."

"Poor fellow," Granholm sniffed. "Spent his whole life countin' the days an' seasons. Who would've guessed his own days would end like this?"

"Who indeed?" echoed Fallace.

"At least it's only two days until spring," Clovis said as they broke their pawholds. "Hopefully the weather will be in our favor, even if our stomachs are empty."

"We're no strangers to empty stomachs, thanks to seasons living as searat slaves," said Lekkas. "I'll eat grass if that's what it takes to get us to Redwall."

"Need not graze grass," Klystra said from his place behind the line of mourners. The falcon spread his wings. "I go fetch food, fly it back here to you."

"Now why didn't that occur t' me?" Browder slapped a paw against his forehead. "Of course this bally featherchap can just nip off to Salamandastron an' be back by sundown with enough tucker t' last us th' rest of our bloomin' stroll!"

"Keep marching," Klystra ordered. "I find you when I have food." And with that he launched himself into the air, flapping his way south.

"You heard the bird!" Granholm laughed to his fellow woodlanders. "Forward ... march!"

Clovis went over to Kurdyla and took his paw in hers. The big otter had remained quiet and childlike during the burial of Syrek and the memorial for Wexford, displaying no overwhelming emotion of any kind. "Are you all right, Kurdyla?"

The otter nodded, but at the same time said, "Wexford is dead?"

"Yes," Clovis replied gently, "he is."

"Oh," Kurdyla said in a small, simple voice. "I don't really remember him. But I feel sad about it."

"We all do," Clovis reassured him, leading Kurdyla away from the lip of the basin and after the others, who'd already resumed their southeast course toward Redwall under Browder's direction.

More than one of the journeyers threw a glance due south as they got underway, wondering about the shrews who'd wandered off in that direction. The two antagonistic beasts had departed as soon as they'd made it safely to the surface, not waiting for the burial of Syrek or the memorial for Wexford. As far as the former slaves could tell, the shrews did not even pause to remember their own two murdered comrades. There was a mystery here, to be sure, but the woodlanders were just relieved to be rid of the shrews' company, and wasted no effort puzzling over their odd behavior.

00000000000

The stark, solitary mountain of Salamandastron could be an impressive sight, especially with the gray winter sea as its backdrop. But as Matowick approached the natural stronghold at the head of his troops, the fortress looked as inviting to him as any green summer forest of his youth.

In the days since the final battle with the searats, the woodland warriors had marched mercifully unmolested by any more of Tratton's forces. No more of the green, black and red sails had appeared on the horizon. Apparently, the two dreadnoughts that had been destroyed represented the totality of the Searat King's power along these shores at the present time.

But there would be others. It was just a matter of time before Tratton became aware of the razing of his lumber camp and the disappearance of two of his biggest warships. Even if there were no searat witnesses to these events, there could be little doubt as to the creature behind them, and Tratton would not let this blow against his empire go unanswered. He could not.

The shrews and otters, with their cargo of wounded, had kept abreast of the landbound Gawtrybe in their logboats for the rest of the journey south, matching the squirrels' pace. Thus the entire assault force - or those who had survived the searat gauntlet, at any rate - neared the foot of Salamandastron together.

Altidor and Klystra had kept the lines of communication open between the marchers and their badger master, constantly flying back and forth between Salamandastron and the southbound warriors. As the flat-topped mountain came into view, with still no sign of any pirate menace, Urthblood had excused Klystra from this coastal duty, bidding the falcon to return to Browder and the Redwall-bound slaves. Matowick and Saybrook's forces were close enough to their home base by that point that Urthblood would have no problem dispatching reinforcements to assist them should any unforeseen trouble arise.

Now, a day after Klystra's dismissal, Matowick led his squirrels to the north base of the mountain, with the intention of scaling the rocky slope there and entering by the closest tunnel. Altidor, however, came swooping down toward them while they still had their footpaws on the flat coastal sands.

"Come around to the south side," the eagle instructed Matowick. "A ceremony is about to begin there, and Lord Urthblood requests your presence. He will wait to start until you arrive."

Matowick frowned, brow furrowed. After their costly and arduous return trip, there wasn't a beast in their company who wasn't looking to get into the mountain and off their footpaws as quickly as possible. To find another duty, however unstressful, awaiting them was not the news they wanted to hear. But there was no going against an edict of Urthblood's, and the Badger Lord would not have dispatched Altidor to deliver this message frivolously. Clearly he had his reasons for wanting Matowick and the others to be present.

"What kind of ceremony?" the Gawtrybe captain asked.

"A dedication," the eagle answered, then flapped shoreward to inform the occupants of the logboats, many of which had already started to put ashore in anticipation of bringing their injured in through the seaward-facing main entrance.

"Oh, well," Matowick said with a shrug, "we've been so many days gettin' here, what's a few more pawsteps around to the south side of this old rock heap?"

Even as they made their way around the west side of the mountain to rendezvous with Saybrook and the shrews, dozens of willing helpers bearing litters poured forth from the main gates and streamed down to the water's edge to carry the wounded inside where they could at last receive proper medical treatment. Meeting up with his waterbourne comrades-in-arms, Matowick found the otter captain every bit as mystified about their unexpected summons as he was.

"Dedercashun?" Saybrook questioned. "Dedercashun fer what? An' why d' we hafta be there? I was lookin' mightily forward to a fillin' meal an' a total collapse inta a nice soft bed."

"Your guess is as good as mine, matey. Guess we'll find out when we get there, eh?"

Two of the Gawtrybe who'd come from within the mountain bustled by bearing Lieutenant Perricone on a stretcher. It was clear from her agitation that she would have preferred another means of returning to the mountain fortress.

"Problem, Perri?" Matowick inquired with a knowing smile.

"I wanted to walk inside under my own power, Captain sir," the female squirrel complained, "but these two cretins won't let me! I'd be perfectly fine with a crutch. I don't want to make my homecoming being carried in like an invalid! Will you please remind these two green recruits that I outrank them?"

"Sorry, ma'am," one of the litter-bearers apologized, "but it's Lord Urthblood's orders. All injured beasts are to be brought in on stretchers."

"You heard 'im, Perri." Matowick smiled, giving her a commiserating pat on the shoulder. "Just remember, half of us didn't come back from this march. They won't be going inside on a stretcher or any other way."

This reminder made Perricone swallow her pride. "Yes, sir. I've not forgotten our mates, and I am grateful to be alive, even if it doesn't sound like it. I'll put a lid on my grousing ... "

"There you go! Now, let Lord Urthblood's medics get your leg bones set properly. I can't have my top lieutenant out of commission for a day longer than necessary!"

"I'll be counting the days myself, sir. You'll see me back on the front lines before spring's halfway done!"

"That's the spirit!"

Matowick and Saybrook stood aside as Perricone was borne up into the mountain. "Lucky lass," said the otter, "gettin' t' laze around on her tail while we hafta trudge around out 'ere."

"You'd rather trade a broken leg for a little extra rest?"

"Well, when y' put it that way ... "

Matowick grinned. "Come on, we don't wanna keep Lord Urthblood waiting. Let's go see what this ceremony's all about."

00000000000

The statue was magnificent.

It had been fashioned from a single immense block of quartz crystal, its smooth curves and sharp lines and fine surface textures coaxed out of the raw material by a lovingly skilled paw and a discerning artist's eye. The swordfox stood larger than he had in life, head held high, ready paw resting on his sword hilt. Although he was carved all in the same yellowish-white substance, there was a clear separation between the flat planes of his uniform, scabbard and healer's satchel and the rougher contours of his face and fur, which were given a most naturalistic appearance. The sculptor had done an especially fine job on the tail, which swooped behind the swordsbeast with a puffiness that looked almost soft, and a vitality that made it seem like it was frozen in motion.

But it was the face that was most remarkable. The clear, penetrating gaze of the eyes actually appeared to be seeing the world before them, and the proud, confident smile was that of a benevolent warrior. These were the body and features of not just any fox but one in particular, and the likeness had been captured to perfection.

"Wow," Matowick murmured under his breath. "That's ... amazing."

"Aye, truly it is," Saybrook agreed softly. "I worked 'longside 'im a lot in th' Northlands, an' marched with him t' Redwall, an' stood at 'is side at th' battle here where he fell. It's almost like 'ee's been brought partway back t' life."

Nearly every occupant of Salamandastron was out on the southern slopes for the occasion; only those who were busy ministering to the newly-arrived wounded were excused from this ceremony. Under the late afternoon winter sun and the stiff, fur-rippling offshore breezes, over two hundred Gawtrybe squirrels stood should-to-shoulder with Saybrook and his otters, Mattoon and his weasels and rats, and Abellon's mice, Tillamook's hedgehogs and Lieutenant Tardo's shrews.

Urthblood stood alongside the crystal statue, facing his hundreds of troops spread out on the mountainside below him. "Twenty seasons ago," the badger began in a booming voice more encompassing than his typical subdued rumble, "when I commenced my campaigns to tame the Northlands, there was one creature who was at my side almost from the very first days of my efforts, and who never wavered in his loyalty and dedication to our cause. Without his help, my task would have been much, much more difficult. He kept order in our ranks, especially among those who had previously been called vermin, and over the seasons he proved himself a true friend to both woodlanders and the Gawtrybe who protected them, becoming the greatest of protectors himself."

The red-armored warrior paused, twisting his immense bulk to gaze up at the statue.

"Two seasons ago, both the lands and I myself suffered a great loss when this most valiant of defenders was struck down in his prime, upon this very spot, in a war that need not have happened, but from which I did not shy away when it was forced upon me. That victory won me sole Lordship of Salamandastron, but it cost me my own brother - even though in spirit he was already lost to me - and also cost me both my right paws. Literally - " Urthblood held aloft his iron-capped stump, " - and figuratively, for of all the officers I lost that dark day, he was the most valued. Our cause remains just, and I will not waver from the course that fate has chosen for me, but that road will be a harder one to follow without his dedication and counsel."

Using his left paw, Urthblood drew his great pitted battle sword from its scabbard with a mighty scraping sound and held it high in tribute toward the quartz memorial. Many of the other warriors on the slope below followed suit.

"On this day, when more warriors of mine have returned triumphant from yet another costly battle against the forces of evil, oppression and chaos ... on this day, Machus my old friend, I finally give your burial spot the proper consecration it deserves. This honor is long overdue, I know, but I waited until a beast was here who could do your memorial full justice. With thanks to Trelayne, the master worker of glass without whose skill this would not have been possible, I hereby dedicate this statue to commemorate your unwavering devotion in life and your heroism in death. May it stand for a thousand seasons ... and may it inspire the light of truth and goodness in the hearts of everybeast who gazes upon it from this day forward, so that the lands may never want for selfless defenders in the tradition that you have set forth."

As these words entered their ears, it occurred to Matowick and Saybrook and all the other survivors of the battles with the searats that they had no business complaining about their own hardships recently suffered or comrades lost. Goodbeasts had always had to risk their lives to stand against tyranny, and oftentimes the price for security was dear.

The ceremony thus concluded, the assembled creatures began to slowly file back up the mountainside and into the fortress. As Saybrook and Matowick approached Urthblood to officially report their return to Salamandastron, they found the Badger Lord engaged in conversation with the marten glassmaker.

"Again, my thanks, Trelayne. You have crafted a truly fitting memorial for Machus the Sword. A warrior and captain of his ability deserved more than just a circle of rocks and a stone-encrusted burial mound. You did a fine job - much more of a challenge for you, I'm sure, than your usual tabletop figurines and etched windowpanes ... "

"It was a little scary, working with so much of the vitriol," Trelayne admitted. "I had to distill tubs and tubs of the stuff ... uh, that's in addition to the quantities you requisitioned for weapons purposes. But, we've all still got all our paws and all our eyes, and I was pleased to make you a statue that meets with your satisfaction. Machus once helped save me from a life of toil and servitude under Tratton and his searats, and I was most aggrieved to learn of his death. This is the least I can do in his memory."

"Not the least," Urthblood countered. "I am sure Andrus will want a similar fixture for Foxguard, once that stronghold is completed. But that will not be until the summer, and your services will most likely be needed here in the meantime."

The badger turned to his squirrel and otter captains. "Welcome back, Matowick ... Saybrook. Altidor and Klystra have kept me appraised of most of what happened during your mission. I will of course want to debrief you both personally, but that is not a pressing need and can most certainly wait until after you've treated yourselves to a much-deserved good night's rest."

"Aye, that'd be much 'preciated, M'Lord," Saybrook nodded. "The journey back was hard, an' we lost a lot o' mates, as y' know. A hot meal an' a soft bed'll make th' tellin' easier."

The otter saluted again and trudged past Urthblood on up to the south tunnel entrance. Matowick lingered a moment.

"After all the damage we inflicted on those searats," the Gawtrybe commander said with a furrowed brow, "I think we can expect trouble from Tratton before the spring is done. Maybe big trouble."

The Badger Lord gazed seaward, his level voice and expression betraying no clear emotion.

"Then we shall just have to be ready for it."


	20. Chapter 26

Chapter Twenty-Six

Klystra returned to the slaves as their procession was preparing to set up camp for the night on the open plains under a wide sky of crimson-painted clouds. The falcon clutched in his talons a sizable haversack which, when opened, revealed a liberal quantity and variety of foodstuffs. The travellers could scarcely believe the display of culinary riches spread out on the ground before them.

"Egads!" Granholm choked in delight as he sampled a candied chestnut - and then another. "There's enough here to feed us for a season!"

"Wouldn't go that far, chap," Browder cautioned, comparing the aromas of a fresh-baked loaf of spicebread and an equally savory oversized pastie. "But should be enough t' get us t' Redwall, if we jolly well watch our bally portions. I say, I don't recall any fare this fine last time I stayed at Salamandastron. Wot, were they hidin' all the good stuff from this poor hare?"

Klystra, standing back from the ecstatic woodlanders, shook his head. "Not Salamandastron. Redwall. Abbey closer, less distance to fly."

"Ah! Well, that jolly well explains it. Should've known tucker like this could only have come from there."

Wharff chewed blissfully on a shrimp and leek pastie. "Is all their food this good?" the otter asked hopefully.

"By all accounts," Browder said. "Though I was only ever there for part of one afternoon, an' the somewhat dire circumstances of that occasion kept me from relishin' my scoff to th' fullest. Um ... " The hare nervously turned to Klystra. "Don't suppose you mentioned to anybeast at the Abbey that I'm part o' this trampin' troupe?"

"Your name didn't come up," the falcon assured him.

Granholm regarded Browder. "Yeah, are you ever gonna tell us what the story is with you and those other hares? Or are we gonna hafta wait until we reach Redwall for them to tell us?"

Browder shuffled his feet and wrung his paws self-consciously as everybeast gazed at him waiting for an answer.

"Um ... well ... " He nodded toward Kurdyla, who squatted inspecting a sweet biscuit; the big otter was the only creature there still intent upon the food rather than Browder. "I already hashed this all out with him, don'tcha know, an' no use boilin' th' cabbage twice, wot? We agreed that maybe it's in everybeast's best interest if I step out o' the picture once we're within sight o' Redwall. I'll just fade back into th' thick o' Mossflower, an' they'll never hafta know I was ever with you t'all."

Wharff glanced at Kurdyla. "Well, it'd be nice t' hear what you two 'hashed out' from Kurdy 'imself, but unfortunately me matey there doesn't seem like he'll be formulatin' any strategies real soon, if y' know what I mean ... "

Clovis put a paw softly on Wharff's arm. "Do you think he's going to be all right? I'm worried about him."

Wharff flashed the young mouse an encouraging smile. "Us otters're tough, missy, an' Kurdy's tougher'n most. Reckon he'll get over them knocks on 'is noggin all in good time."

"If he's still behavin' out of sorts by the time you get to Redwall, they'll know wot t' do," Browder put in. "Those Abbeyfolk are reputed to be the best spankin' healerbeasts this side o' Urthblood's miracle foxes. They'll know what herbs 'n' potions to use to set him right. Why, just spendin' some time at that grand old place might be enough t' jostle his bally brainbox back where it should be."

Granholm went over to Kurdyla and squatted down beside him. "Hey, there, matey, how you like all this food our bird friend's gone an' fetched for us?"

The brawny otter stared at the squirrel with a not-quite-comprehending aura of innocence glazing his eyes. "'Tis fine."

Granholm fought to keep his smile from slipping. "Yes, fine. Say, do you happen to remember what you and Browder were talking about doin' when we got near Redwall?"

Kurdyla's vacant expression remained unchanged. "I heard Redwall's a nice place. I'd like to see it."

Now Granholm couldn't prevent his smile from becoming wistful - not that such a nuance would be noticed by the suddenly-simple-minded otter. "That you will," he said, patting Kurdyla on the back. "That you will."

"That makes one of us," Browder muttered as he turned his attention to getting their campfire lit for the night.

00000000000

The last day of winter found Salamandastron abuzz with activity.

Once more the skies were as gray as the sea, as the coldest season made one last bid to assert itself on its final day. Working beneath those steely skies, teams of squirrels and otters emplaced two enormous catapults on the seaward slopes, where they would be able to threaten any naval vessel that drew too close to shore. Elsewhere on the mountainside, positions were fortified for the rapid-fire crossbow wagons that Browder had seen being tested the day before his assault team had left Salamandastron. More of the bolt-hurling anti-infantry devices were being constructed for use inside the main entrance, where they would be able to cut down score after score of any enemy horde who succeeded in breaching the main gates.

Matowick stood at the Badger Lord's side as they oversaw the installation of one catapult. Both he and Saybrook had been thoroughly debriefed by Urthblood, who now knew as much about Tratton's new weapons as anybeast, excepting the searats themselves.

"I don't understand, My Lord," the Gawtrybe captain said. "Now that you've made an alliance with the seagulls and can use them to destroy Tratton's ships, why do we need such extensive defenses here on the mountain itself?"

"It is always possible that Tratton will be able to land a considerable assault force before the ships carrying them can be sunk. We should not have to rely totally upon the gulls for our protection. Remember, Tratton is now building ships of steel as well as wood, and fire will not work against those."

"No. But the glass vitriol will. That stuff eats through anything."

"One reason I have added it to my arsenal. But it may not do the job quickly enough against thick steel hull plating. We have to operate on the assumption that somehow, someday, the searats will succeed in landing an army and attacking in force. That is what we must prepare for."

Matowick directed a searching gaze at his badger master. "Have you ... seen this, My Lord?"

"It is common sense strategy, Captain. I do not need the gift of prophetic sight to know how to defend my own home."

But Urthblood was indeed still putting great stock in his alliance with King Grullon. Down in his workshop, Trelayne and his assistants were making and blowing glass as fast as they could - both the regular vessels for holding the flammable accelerants and the wax-lined globes to contain the corrosive vitriol. Trelayne himself personally concocted new batches of the vitriol, which was then stored in covered tubs; not only could the fumes be damaging to breathe if the fluid was left standing in the open for too long, but after the incident with Browder, Trelayne didn't want to risk enticing any other unknowledgeable visitors into making a potentially fatal mistake.

Meanwhile, by the shoreline, Saybrook and some of his otters were seeing off the logboat shrews. Urthblood had officially promoted Tardo to captain and issued the new commander his next assignment. Tardo and his shrews were to leave at once.

"So, where're y' bound fer, matey?" Saybrook inquired of his diminutive friend; he and Tardo had become fast companions during the journey back to Salamandastron. "If'n it ain't a secret ... "

"No secret y' don't already know 'bout, y ol' riverwalloper," Tardo said, "since you was there when it happened. Lord Urthblood's sendin' us inland t' safeguard that underwater rat ship he captured last summer."

Saybrook was genuinely surprised. "I thought he left that contraption in th' care o' the Guosim shrews?"

Tardo shook his head. "Th' Guosim go up t' winter at Redwall. There's been a local tribe o' otters who agreed ta temporarily move their holt t' where th' thing's moored so they c'n guard it over th' winter. But it might be well inta spring 'fore th' Guosim stir themselves t' leave Redwall, an' with all that's just happened with th' searats, Lord Urthblood wants extra security on that craft. There'll be more shrews comin' down from th' Northlands t' help us. In fact, we're gonna build ourselves a garrison there, right along th' river. Moles up north drew up th' plans, which our brother shrews'll be bringin' down with 'em. Who knows?" Tardo gave the otter a friendly elbow nudge. "Mebbe someday, we'll be usin' that bucket o' bolts fer ourselves 'gainst Tratton!"

"Oo, now wouldn't that be sweet irony!" Saybrook got down on one knee so he could embrace the smaller creature. "You take care o' yerself, li'l matey! After all you been through this season, y' don't need anymore trouble comin' yer way."

"What're ya blatherin' about, Cap'n Waterdog? You went through just as much as we did. Ye're th' ones who'll be out here on th' front lines if Tratton makes this inta a real war. We'll be sittin' on our scrimpy tails in our nice cushy Mossflower assignment, far away from all th' action - more's th' pity!"

"Yah, well, mebbe if it stays nice 'n' quiet out here, I'll come pay you a visit after you've got yer new homestead all set up. Mebbe even take that rusty rat tub fer a spin 'round th' river m'self!"

Saybrook and the other otters stood back as the logboat fleet was launched over the breakers and out onto the main, skimming over the foamy wavetops with the light grace of craft guided by expert rowers. Every boat would be going south with Tardo's shrews, the empty seats filled with extra provisions from Salamandastron's larders. They would not go hungry waiting for the growing seasons to bring forth the full bounty of Mossflower's edible riches.

In no time at all the logboat flotilla dwindled into the choppy gray-green of the winter sea, and was gone. The otters turned and trudged their way up into Salamandastron, to wait and see whether it would be peace ... or war.

00000000000

It was the second day of spring, and once again Klystra had been called away from Browder and the Redwall-bound slaves.

Altidor the eagle had come to them the evening before, informing the falcon that Urthblood was reassigning him to fly cover for Tardo's shrews while they sailed south along the coast and then up the broadstream that contained the captured searat submarine. And so, as dusk fell over the thawing Western Plains, the two raptors winged their way southwest, leaving the marchers once more without any aerial scout.

Not that it really mattered by this point. They were so close to Redwall, without any sign of any enemy between them and the Abbey, that they decided it wasn't even necessary for Browder to scout out ahead of them. It didn't help the hare's constitution when Granholm brought up the point that Browder's reconnaissance hadn't kept them from falling into the clutches of the Flitch-aye-aye.

"The food's the main thing," Lekkas the mouse quickly pointed out, seeking to shift the conversation away from any possible shortcoming of Browder's. "We just have to make sure we ration what we have so it'll last us 'til we get to Redwall, since Klystra didn't have time to fly to the Abbey to fetch us any more."

Wharff nodded, "Aye, an' water too. T'was nice o' them Redwallers t' throw in a few extra water pouches fer us, but they won't do us no good if'n we don't come across any streams or ponds t' fill 'em. At least when there was snow on the ground we could melt it fer cookin' an' drinkin', but it's all gone now ... "

"Yes, but the days are growing wonderfully mild!" Clovis inhaled deeply. "And smell that air! Ah, spring ... glorious!"

"Too bad the nights are still bitterly cold," Lekkas grumbled. "I nearly shivered my fur off these last two nights, even with our fires and my bedroll!"

"Yeah, I'd noticed," said another mouse named Thisal, "since I was sharing that bedroll with you, Lekky!"

"Well, we've got the Flitch-aye-aye to thank for not havin' enough to go around," said Lekkas. "If my shivering bothers you that much, Thiss, why don't you bed down with Fallace or Hegedus? Those 'hogs would be nice 'n' cozy, I'm sure!"

"Erherm!" Browder loudly cleared his throat. "Gettin' back to th' bally matter at paw, we should come within sight o' Redwall in th' next day or two. We might find ourselves a tad parched an' peckish on th' final leg of our stroll, but that oughtn't be a problem, long as we don't meet anymore unexpected delays."

Now, with the noontide nearly upon them, the travellers settled down for a spare but flavorful lunch amongst a circle of hillocks. While the others rested and ate, Browder and Granholm climbed to the top of the easternmost hill. Paws to brows, they scanned to the horizon.

"Hmm ... still no sight o' Redwall," the hare said. "Thought we might be able t' snatch a peek from this high ground, but I guess we're just a scritch too far still ... "

A movement overhead made Granholm glance up. "Well, this warmer weather's bringin' out the birds. That's a sparrow, unless I'm mistaken."

"Hey, watch where it goes," said Browder. "Klystra seemed t' think we might come across one more small stream 'tween here 'n' Redwall. Maybe that birdbrain can show us th' way to it, wot?"

"Worth a try, I s'pose ... though it seems more interested in us than anything, judging by the way it's circling overhead. Hope it doesn't think it'll be getting any food out of us, 'cos it'd be in for a mighty big disappointment!"

They could hear the clear, trilling chirps of the sparrow drifting down to them on the mild spring air, but they could not make out any words in the birdsong. Perhaps it was just the nonsensical chatter of a creature delighted by the arrival of this season of rebirth, singing its heart out in unbridled joy.

After one final circle, the sparrow shot off to the east, skimming along the fresh spring breezes like a feathery stone skipping across the surface of a still pond. As hare and squirrel watched, it dipped below another distant rise in the landscape.

"Think it just found the stream we're looking for?" Granholm wondered.

"Dunno, chappie. Worth a look, tho'. It swooped down into that bloomin' hollow for some reason. Might be its nest down there - "

"Don't think so. Sparrows nest in high places, not on the ground, and I doubt there are any valleys out here on the plains that are so deep they'd hide entire trees from us ... "

"Well, it's not too far for a slog. I'll just run out that way an' see wot's wot, wot?" Browder was about to start right off, but Granholm stopped him with a paw on the shoulder.

"Better take some of those spare water pouches with you, just in case you do find that stream. And maybe somebeast or two to help you carry them back - several full pouches might be too much for you to handle by yourself."

"Won't be able t' travel as fast as I could if I go alone," Browder countered.

Granholm sighted along the rolling plains. "Where that sparrow disappeared isn't too far off our present course. You wouldn't have to come all the way back here - just wait for us up ahead, and we'll meet you there."

"Sounds like a bally plan," Browder nodded. "Right, so who'll it be? Not a mouse or 'hog, need longer legs than that. Also somebeast with plenty o' brawn who can heft those pouches if they're full ... "

A short time later, Browder set out with Kurdyla at his side. The hare had approached Wharff for the task, but surprisingly the stricken otter had volunteered instead. Browder didn't object - Kurdyla was the biggest and strongest creature in their party, nearly a match for a badger - but secretly Browder suspected he might just as easily end up having to play nursemaid to the otter, given Kurdyla's present childlike condition. But the burly beast had been eager to lend a paw and enthusiastic about going to investigate the possible water source. Perhaps in his currently fractured mind he dimly remembered how he and Browder had started off as the two unofficial heads of their company, and this was his way of recapturing that. One thing was clear, though: even in this docile state, nobeast was about to tell Kurdyla what he could and couldn't do.

After the duo had left, Clovis took Granholm and Wharff aside. "I know Browder is talking about leaving us when we get within sight of Redwall," the young mouse said, "but I don't think he should. He came with us all this way, guiding us here from the coast, and we never would have gotten this far without him. Why should he be denied the hospitality of Redwall?"

"Because, by all accounts, there's a bunch of bunnies inside that Abbey who'd like to split our friend Browder from neck to bellybutton," said Granholm.

"Aye," Wharff agreed, "an' he still ain't come clean with us over what that's all about. If his bein' with us is gonna cause us trouble, then that's trouble we don't need, missy."

"Trouble?" Clovis repeated, eyes wide. "Are you both so quick to forget the trouble we've already had? Browder and Klystra risked their lives to come down after us and save us from the Flitch-aye-aye. They would have been well within their rights to have given us up for lost, and then we all would have ended up like poor Wexford! It's not fair if we repay him by casting him off when it's not convenient to have him around anymore!"

Wharff pursed his lips. "Yeah, that's a point. I reckon that flopears did save our lives. Or helped to, anyways."

"So what can we do about it?" Granholm asked.

"We can stand up for one of our own, that's what we can do!" Clovis spat emphatically. "You two are the biggest and strongest creatures here, and now that Kurdyla's not right, the leadership of our company falls to you. We have to stand up to those hares, and let them know that Browder's one of us, and we won't tolerate them harassing him!"

"Us?" Granholm asked, incredulous. "Stand up to the Long Patrol?"

"Why not? We were slaves of the searats and prisoners of cannibals - surely we can handle a bunch of hares? They are supposed to be goodbeasts, after all. They'll listen to us. We'll make them listen!"

"I don't know." Granholm was skeptical. "When goodbeasts are convinced they're in the right, they can be more terrible to oppose than any vermin. I mean, look at what the Gawtrybe did at that searat mill ... "

"Aye," Wharff added, "an' I heard tell that th' Long Patrols are fanatical 'bout anybeast they consider an enemy. They might not be inclined t' lissen t' reason in th' matter ... "

"Then we'll appeal to the Abbess!" Clovis insisted. "They'll dare not harm Browder if she forbids it. Why, once they hear everything we have to say, they'll see what a hero Browder is, and then they wouldn't think of hurting him!"

"First we'll hafta get 'im inside th' Abbey," said Wharff. "Won't be much we or th' Abbess can do if'n those hares're patrollin' outside Redwall an' get to 'im first."

"Then we won't let them! I'll put myself between Browder and anybeast who threatens him! They'll have to get through me first!"

Granholm and Wharff both smiled at the idea of a mouse putting herself in front of a hare twice her size to protect him from other hares twice her size. "Then we'll be standing right at your side, if it comes to that," the squirrel assured her. "But I think we're all overlooking one thing here ... "

"What?" Clovis and Wharff asked as one.

"What if Browder doesn't _want_ to go to Redwall?"

Clovis looked confused. "Well ... why wouldn't he? It's supposed to be such a nice place ... "

"Granny could be right," Wharff said slowly. "Could be that place might have some bad mem'ries fer Browder. A nice place fer most o' us might not be a nice place fer everybeast ... "

"Well, yes, but if those hares are the only reason he doesn't want to go to Redwall ... "

Granholm patted Clovis on the shoulder. "Tell ya what. When Browder gets back, or when we catch up to him, we'll ask him. Simple as that. If he knows we're all on his side and we'd support him in any confrontation with those other hares, maybe he'll have a change of heart about staying clear of Redwall. For all we know, Browder could still be expected back at Salamandastron for a new assignment, or maybe he's eager to rejoin friends and loved ones up in the Northlands. But if the Long Patrol's the only thing keeping him from going to Redwall, well ... we'll just have to do something about that!"


	21. Chapter 27

Chapter Twenty-Seven

"Hmph. Coulda jolly well swore this is where I saw that featherduster come down, but no sign of it, or any bally stream for that matter."

Browder glanced left and right along the gully into which he and Kurdyla had descended. It was barren and dry, a desolate mix of scraggly rocks and plain grass. Some stagnant pools might collect along its muddy bottom after heavy rains, but for now it was just a waterless gash cutting through the countryside.

"Suppose we'd better scope this place out, just in case there's some small spring or such trickling its way out 'tween these rocks. We came all this way, after all." Browder pointed to their left. "Right. You head that way, an' I'll go this way, an' we'll see wot there is to see, wot?"

Kurdyla placed a paw on the hare's shoulder. "Don't leave me."

"Huh? Wot?" Browder blinked at the otter, then gently peeled the big webbed paw off his collarbone. "Hey, don't be a silly goose, wot? Nothing out here that can hurt us, Klystra said so 'fore he left us last night, remember? Now, if there's any blinkin' water to be found out here, we'll find it faster if we split up. Cover more ground, and all that." He straightened the water pouches slung over Kurdyla's shoulder like a mother fussing over her son's knapsack before sending him out for a day's excursion in the woods. "It'll be quite all right. Just give a shout if you find anything worth shoutin' about, or run and fetch me. I won't be too far away." He gave Kurdyla a look he supposed was authoritatively imploring, but came off more as doleful-eyed pleading.

"Um ... okay." The brawny otter turned and started slowly off down the gully, picking his way halfheartedly between rocky outcrops, gravel-strewn escarpments, muddy patches and grassy knolls.

"There's a good egg," Browder said, then headed off in the opposite direction, alert for any trace of drinkable water, or the sparrow who'd last been seen in this vicinity.

When the two creatures were no longer in each other's sight, Kurdyla halted and stood in one spot for a long time, staring back the way he'd come. Then, turning around, he started slowly retracing his steps, heading in the direction Browder had gone.

The hare was moving at a much faster clip than the plodding otter, seeking to cover as much ground as possible. Scooting along the floor of the gully, Browder followed a zigzag course that avoided the roughest and messiest areas. After he'd scouted a good distance without success, he decided to scale one slope to get the lay of the land from a high point, and to see if there was any further sign of birds who might lead them to water.

Browder crested the ridge - and found himself face to face with another hare.

That it was a hare of the Long Patrol was apparent at a glance from its dress and demeanor. The well-muscled malebeast bore an immense haversack slung over his shoulder, and seemed as surprised by the encounter as Browder was. "Oh, hullo there," the stranger said amiably.

Browder froze in terror, unable even to flee back down into the gulch. His mouth worked, but only strangled, incoherent sounds emerged.

"Huh?" The soldierbeast regarded the player hare quizically. "Wot's th' matter, friend? You look like you've seen a bally ghost."

"I ... was lookin' fer water," Browder squeaked with mouselike timidity, because it was all he could think of to say.

"Oh? Well, I've got some water and cordial on me. S'pose I could spare you a few swigs ... "

Browder narrowed his eyes at the hare. It was nobeast he recognized, but more to the point was that this newcomer didn't seem to recognize him either, and this Browder could not fathom. Every hare of the Long Patrol must surely know him, since they'd all been present at Salamandastron when he was there the previous summer ... hadn't they?

The hare - a younger beast than his grim and weathered features had first led Browder to believe - set down his bulging sack and shifted his javelin to his left paw, extending his right for shaking. "Name's Hanchett. An' yours?"

"Um ... " Browder took Hanchett's paw and shook it tentatively. "You _are_ Long Patrol, aren't you?"

"That's right," Hanchett said, mildly surprised. "You know of us?"

"Who hasn't heard o' th' Long Patrol? But, um, I thought you lot were all stayin' at Redwall these days. Wot're you doin' out here?"

"Some bird came to the Abbey a few days ago an' told us there was a gang o' escaped slaves headin' our way in need o' food 'n' drink. So, we decided t' come out an' meet 'em halfway with some vittles."

"We?" Browder croaked.

"Yeah, Sergeant Traughber should be along any moment - ah, here he is now. You one o' those slaves, by any chance?"

"I ... I gotta go ... " Browder stammered as he saw a second Long Patrol hare emerge from behind a nearby copse of trees. The imperiled player hare spun to duck back down into the gully ... and nearly ran smack into a low-swooping cluster of feathers that had been skimming through the air just above the ground. Browder had to throw himself onto his back to avoid a collision. "Yah!"

Hanchett leaned over his prostrate fellow hare. "Oh, don't fret yerself over that, he's just one of Redwall's Sparra, helpin' to guide us to th' slaves. Won't do you any harm ... "

Browder scrambled to regain his feet, but it was too late. Traughber had arrived on the scene, and the Sergeant's eyes went wide with surprised recognition. "Browder?"

In a heartbeat, in the space of an eyeblink even, Hanchett's javelin came around to press hard against the fallen hare's windpipe, its pointed tip threatening to draw blood. All traces of companionability were gone from the fighting beast's deadly serious expression.

"Browder, eh? Y' don't say ... " Cold, hard eyes stared down at the enemy of the Long Patrol. "How I've dreamed of gettin' this chance ... "

Before anybeast could speak or act further, a dark-furred behemoth charged up out of the gully, roaring like a living storm. There was no time for Hanchett to react before the attacking beast spun and knocked the hare's legs out from under him with one sweep of a massively thick tail. Sergeant Traughber rushed forward to assist his younger comrade, but not even his dipping and stabbing spear could keep him from being swept off his feet as well.

Browder crawled on his paws and tail away from the confrontation. If there was any notion in his mind of chastising Kurdyla for disobeying his earlier instructions, he didn't voice it.

Hanchett sprang back up to his feet with the resilience that only a young fighting hare can muster, and swung his steel shaft at the unarmed otter's head. Kurdyla caught it roughly, his paws clamping onto the javelin with an unyielding visegrip. For several moments the two creatures grappled, but then Hanchett realized his larger opponent wasn't even trying to wrest the weapon out of his grasp. Before the hare's disbelieving eyes, the berserker otter (for this he truly was now) bent the steel implement into a right angle, rendering it virtually useless.

Traughber was up and charging again. Kurdyla lifted Hanchett off the ground by the bent javelin he refused to relinquish and swung him toward the Sergeant, using one hare as a battering ram against the other. Both went down in a tangle with a cracking of bone upon bone, and this time they were not so quick to rise again.

Kurdyla strode over to them while they still lay stunned and relieved them of their weapons with two swipes of his paw; Traughber's wood spear landed clear on the other side of the gully, scores of paces away. He quickly deprived the pair of their knives in a like manner, then took each hare by the neck and hoisted them high into the air, their footpaws dangling free and helpless above the earth. Traughber and Hanchett revived only to find themselves being held aloft by the mad otter like a pair of rag dolls, one in each of Kurdyla's paws, the life being slowly but surely choked out of them.

Browder had only moments to make a decision. Kurdyla was only protecting his companion, and would have been justified in slaying the two beasts who'd been about to do the same to Browder. Having Hanchett and Traughber out of the way would certainly make things simpler for Browder, assuming there weren't other Long Patrols currently roaming the Western Plains. But in the end it was simple compassion that ruled the player hare's course of action; Browder just could not stand by and watch two lives be snuffed out if there was any way he could prevent it.

Struggling to his feet, he rushed forward and pulled at Kurdyla's arm. "Hey, now, don't go doin' anything rash, wot? You've taken away their weapons, so they can't do us any harm. They came t' help us. See all the food 'n' drink in those two big bags over there? Well, that's for us - you, me, an' all our friends. So be a good otter chap an' don't hurt 'em."

Kurdyla's eyes remained dangerously red, fixed upon the two hares squirming in his double grip. He made no move to release them.

"Put 'm down, Kurdy!" Browder ordered, surprised by the sharpness in his own voice.

This did the trick. Supressing his snarl, Kurdyla slowly lowered the Long Patrols to the ground and relaxed his grip. The two hares collapsed onto their tails, gasping and rubbing at their tortured throats. They knew full well how narrowly they had just escaped death.

Kurdyla retreated several paces, where he stood glaring dangerously at the two Redwallers.

Sergeant Traughber shot Browder an acid glance as he sat massaging his voice box. "Friend o' yers?" he croaked.

"You could say that. He's one o' th' bally slaves you came here to help. I've been escortin' 'em to Redwall from the coast, showin' 'em the way. This here's Kurdyla - friends call 'im Kurdy. An', if you want a word of advice - " Browder glanced nervously at the wrathful otter, " - you don't wanna go makin' him angry."

00000000000

The former slaves were very surprised indeed when the two beasts who'd set out in search of water had turned into five upon rejoining the marchers in the midafternoon. The sparrow Roofbeam led the way, circling over the larger group so that Browder, Kurdyla and the two Long Patrol hares could pinpoint where they were now that both parties were on the move again. Hanchett and Traughber walked in front, burdened by their heavy food sacks, while the player hare and his otter protector brought up the rear, the Long Patrol weapons in their own paws for safekeeping.

The slaves' surprise turned to delight when they learned how much prime fare was contained in the two haversacks - not just food but drink too. The first batch of provisions that Klystra had delivered to them from Redwall had contained no beverages, since that would have made the load too heavy for the falcon to carry over such a distance. Now, even before they stopped for the evening, the journeyers were sipping cool clear water from the Abbey pond and sweet fruit cordials from Balla's cellars.

Since the two Long Patrollers knew the way to the Abbey better than even Browder did, they marched up front with Wharff and Granholm, where they were able to give the otter and squirrel an earful about the history between Browder and the Salamandastron hares ... from their point of view, of course. But every bad word they had to say against Browder was countered by Granholm and Wharff, who explained how the Northlands hare had selflessly volunteered to be their guide to Redwall, even though he knew full well he would not be able to enjoy the Abbey's hospitality for himself, and how Browder had risked his life to help free them from the Flitch-aye-aye. The two fighting hares scowled at any suggestion of decency or bravery residing within Browder.

This intransigent attitude finally caused Granholm to scowl back. "Listen, I can understand why you feel toward Browder as you do, given what happened last summer, but believe me when I say he's not an evil beast, and he certainly doesn't deserve the death you two seem eager to give him. If you think Browder's evil, I suggest you try spending three seasons as a slave in a searat camp, and then you'll see what evil really is."

Hanchett, who'd been content to leave most of the talking to his sergeant, simply glowered in silence. But Traughber could not let this last point pass unchallenged.

"Ho, I've seen evil, all right, my dear bushytailed fellow, an' it's name's Urthblood. Bad as Tratton's seascum surely are, they're not half th' threat to th' bloomin' lands that Urthblood is. Tratton might be able t' conquer th' seas 'n' coastlands, but that bloody badger may just try t' take everything - Redwall included. An' someday he might just succeed ... especially if he's workin' secretly with th' searats, as most of us half-suspect he is."

"Workin' with th' searats?" Wharff exclaimed. "Matey, you musta got mud jammed down in them flopears o' yores from somewhere, 'cos we just got finished tellin' ya t'was Urthblood who sent that force 'gainst th' searats t' burn their buildings an' sink their ships. T'was his squirrels 'n' otters freed us from our chains. I dunno 'bout politics 'n' intrigue an' stuff like that, nor why Urthblood would use such underpawed tactics 'gainst his own brother ... or why Browder'd agree t' be part of it, fer that matter. But I owe that badger more'n I'll ever be able t' repay. We all do. An' as fer Browder - " Wharff exchanged glances with Granholm, " - well, Browder's one o' us now, after all we been through t'gether. So you'll take us all, or you'll take none o' us."

Now it was Hanchett and Traughber's turn to trade glances. "Um, right. Wotever you say," the Sergeant muttered. It didn't occur to them at that moment that the squirrel and otter might have been voicing the feelings of all the slaves. Clearly these must be the two most militant members of the company, since they'd volunteered or been chosen to march with the Long Patrol hares at the fore of the group to keep an eye on them. Traughber decided he would wait until they made camp for the night; then he might get a chance to talk to some of the more reasonable beasts here.

Kurdyla and Browder walked farther back in the procession that afternoon, keeping a respectable distance and a number of bodies between themselves and the two Long Patrol. Browder never once lost the shakiness in his knees or the queasiness in his stomach at being in such close proximity to a pair of warriors who wanted him dead. He knew that Kurdyla and the other slaves were the only reason he was still alive. The big otter, his previous childlike quality now transformed to a fierce, single-minded determination, had not strayed more than a few paces from Browder's side at any time since their first encounter with Hanchett and Traughber. It was clear that Kurdyla had appointed himself Browder's guardian until they reached Redwall, and perhaps after that as well. For his part, the hare was hardly about to object.

Hanchett's ruined javelin had been left behind at the gully, but Kurdyla had both Long Patrol knives tucked into his belt, and Traughber's spear never left the otter's paw. If the two hares tried to make trouble, Kurdyla would be there to put them in their places with the Sergeant's own weapon.

The sun was still in the sky when Roofbeam, flying aerial reconnaissance for the travellers as Klystra had done, reported a stream slightly to the south of their present course. They altered their direction accordingly, and sunset found them setting up camp on the grassy banks of a clear-running brook. It would be their last chance to refill all their canteens and pouches until they got to Redwall, and even with the drink that the two hares had brought with them from the Abbey, the slaves didn't want to pass up the opportunity.

A small fire was started from dried leaves and twigs. While Granholm and Wharff set out in search of larger pieces of firewood, the rest of the company gathered around the fledgling blaze. Browder sat with Kurdyla as far from his two hare nemeses as he could, so far that he would probably not feel the warmth of the fire even once it had roared fully to life. Traughber saw this as the perfect opening to sound out the other slaves about Browder and let them know in no uncertain terms what a traitorous louse they were dealing with.

Sparing no detail, Traughber spun the tale of all that had happened between Urthblood and Urthfist the previous summer, and the part Browder had played in those events. Granholm and Wharff returned with arms full of wood before the Sergeant had finished, but since they had heard most of this already during the afternoon's march, they fed the fire and then took their own seats wordlessly so as not to interrupt Traughber. The subject of his condemnation sat on the outskirts of the gathering, but still within hare's hearing range. But Browder never once broke in on Traughber's stinging indictment of him, offering not one word of protest or rebuttal in his own defense. Several times during the story, woodlanders would glance the player hare's way as if to seek confirmation or denial of what they were hearing, but Browder would only hang his head and refuse to meet any gaze directed at him.

None of the three hares was expecting what happened after Traughber finished speaking. The Sergeant had chosen his words with great care and omitted no detail in describing the treachery that had been perpetrated against the Long Patrol. No impartial listener would have been able to hear his testimony and reach any other conclusion than that Browder was a black-hearted liar, a scheming spy and practitioner of the vilest of deceptions, and a willing servant of the greatest evil ever to walk the lands. But, into the silence that followed his last word ...

"I don't care."

It was the young female mouse with the eyes of jade, the quiet one who had barely spoken since the Long Patrol had joined their ranks. The one Traughber had all but dismissed as inconsequential, at least as far as exerting any authority over the others. Clovis made her voice heard now, however.

"I believe everything happened as you say it did - at least from your point of view - but I don't care. We have marched with Browder for many days now, and have had enough time and opportunity to know his heart, and it is a good one, whatever mistakes he may have made in the past. He came to our aid when he could have easily walked away. I saw one of my friends and companions dragged away screaming, and all I ever saw of him again were his bones. That could have been me - and it would have been, if Browder hadn't come back for us. He has proven to us by his deeds a worthiness that no words can tarnish or wipe away. I cannot help it if you see him as an enemy, but I will never be able to share that view. And I will stand between Browder and anybeast who would seek to do him harm."

"Me, too," seconded Granholm.

"And me," Lekkas echoed without hesitation.

"An' me," agreed Fallace.

"Hear hear!" said Wharff.

As Traughber and Hanchett sat there in the flame-flickered twilight, eyes growing wider with each avowal on Browder's behalf, every one of the former slaves voiced their support for the player hare who had been their guide and scout since the coastlands and their rescuer from the underground cavern of horrors. Only Kurdyla held his tongue, but the paw of support he placed upon Browder's shoulder spoke more eloquently than any words.

Browder kept his head down, but now he could not entirely keep a sheepish smile from playing across his lips in appreciation of the friendly support he had just received from every member of their party.

Traughber looked to Hanchett. "I say, wot in th' name o' flyin' frogsticks has that hare done to this lot?"


	22. Chapter 28

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Watches were stood that night - not to guard against an assault from outside enemies, but to keep Browder from coming to harm at the paws of the overzealous, vengeance-seeking Long Patrol. Kurdyla's presence alone probably would have been enough to dissuade the two fighting hares from attempting violence on Browder - the big otter sat up the entire night, forgoing sleep - but Granholm and Wharff thought it best to post other watchers as well.

As it turned out, Browder didn't get much sleep himself that night, his stomach twisted in nervous knots as he lay in his shared bedroll. He envied Lekkas, snoozing blissfully alongside him, secure in the knowledge that he could slumber soundly without fear of somebeast trying to murder him before morning came.

But eventually Browder did drift off, and when he opened his eyes to behold the pale dawn sky above him, there was no blade betwixt his ribs and no bludgeon dent in his skull.

Once again the entire company enjoyed the delicious Redwall fare. There was no doubt now that they had more than enough to see them to their destination, even if they kept to their measured pace and had to share with the two Long Patrol hares. Hanchett, Traughber and the sparrow Roofbeam tucked in as heartily as anybeast; the two hares' disappointment in being denied their right to mete out justice to Browder did not seem to diminish their appetites in the least.

"Don't s'pose you'd be kind enough t' relinquish us our weapons, wot?" Traughber asked Granholm, the Sergeant licking apple and plum crumble crumbs from his whiskers. "We're soldierbeasts, y' know. Feel kinda naked without our bally armaments."

"Oh, and you'd just love a blade t' chuck my way, wouldn't ya?" Browder challenged from across the campsite, emboldened by the show of support he'd gotten the night before.

"You really don't need your weapons," the squirrel replied to Traughber. "You're travelling as part of our group now, and there's nothing we won't be able to handle together."

"It's th' principle of th' thing, don'tcha know." Traughber shrugged. "Ah, well, if you're th' sort who'd deny an honorable beast th' simple courtesy of bein' able t' carry its basic symbols of service ... "

Granhom stiffened at this accusation. "Honorable, eh? Tell ya what, then - I'll give you back your weapons, _if_ you swear on the honor of the Long Patrol and as Redwallers that you'll never lift arms or paws against Browder, or harm him in any way."

"Hey, that's askin' too bloomin' much, chap! Our feud with that lyin' fink goes back way before any o' you lot befriended him! You can't ask us t' swear t' that!"

Granholm was firm. "No promise, no weapons. Up to you."

Traughber ground his jaw, while Hanchett wordlessly shifted his baleful glare from Granholm to Browder and back again.

"Tell ya what," the Sergeant said at last. "Hanch an' I'll pledge not t' cause that vermin in hare's clothes any harm for th' rest o' the way 'tween here 'n' Redwall, until he's under th' protection of the jolly old Abbess herself. But whether she grants him her good graces or gives him leave t' stay at the Abbey is up to her. There may come a day sometime in th' seasons ahead that we'll cross paths with Browder again, an' I'll not have my paws tied from givin' him wot he deserves by some promise forced outta me now."

"Not good enough."

"Well, that's th' best you'll get, bushtail. An' lest you forget, any promise we make here only binds us two. There's a whole bally lot more of us back at Redwall, an' when it comes to Browder, they'll slay first an' ask questions later. Now, if we should run inta any of our mates out patrollin' before we set foot inside the Abbey, an' me 'n' Hanch are unarmed, well, we'll be in no blinkin' position t' stop 'em puttin' a shaft or spear through Browder's middle - we Long Patrols can be deadly at quite a distance, don'tcha know, an' there ain't much even your strong 'n' silent otter behemoth over there could do t' stop such a thing from happenin'. On the other paw, if our Colonel an' Lieutenant an' all our fellows see Hanch an' me leadin' you lot at th' front of your column with our weapons in paw, that'd stay them from doin' anything rash, if y' know wot I mean."

Granholm's eyes narrowed. "That sounds an awful lot like blackmail to me."

Traughber spread his paws. "Call it wotcha like, chappie. But if you give us back our weapons, we'll promise on our honor as Long Patrol an' our oath as Redwallers that we'll conduct all o' you - Browder included - safely back to the Abbey. An', we'll intervene on his behalf if we should happen t' meet any other Long Patrols out 'n' about 'fore we get there. An' that's a mighty generous offer, consid'rin' wot that hare's done to us."

Hanchett leaned over to Traughber. "Sarge, we can't make a deal like that! Browder's got it comin', no matter wot this rabble says!"

"This rabble's th' reason we're out here, in case you'd forgot," the Sergeant admonished the junior hare. "They're goodbeasts, an' former slaves who've prob'ly suffered more'n either you or I would jolly well care to imagine. Now, that ottery hulk over there ain't gonna let us so much as flick one whisker of Browder's outta place, so that's a done deal no matter wot we promise or not. Now, let's at least regain our dignity after yesterday's fiasco by gettin' back our weapons, wot? An' that means givin' our bally word - an' keepin' it."

The woodlanders were surprised to see the Sergeant using such a harsh tone of command toward one of his own. Hanchett winced under this near-reprimand. "Yessir," he bit off.

Hesitantly, Granholm rose and retrieved the hares' two knives and spear from Kurdyla. The otter was a little reluctant to yield them, but with a few encouraging words the squirrel was able to coax them out of Kurdyla's possession. Crossing to stand before Traughber and Hanchett, Granholm said, "Do you give your word, as honorable hares of the Long Patrol and as Redwallers, that you will cause Browder no harm until he is safely inside Redwall, and that you will protect him for the remainder of our journey as you would protect any of the rest of us?"

"I do." Traughber grimaced as he said it, but his tone was sincere.

Granholm looked to Hanchett. "And you?"

Hanchett glowered dangerously in Browder's direction.

"Well?" Granholm prompted.

The young hare gave a grudging nod at last. "Okay," he muttered. It seemed all he could bring himself to say.

"All right then. I'll hold you both to that pledge." Granholm gave each hare his respective knife, and Traughber his spear as well. "Might as well be on our way then. Um, you don't mind if we keep you marching up in front of us? Wouldn't wanna tempt you into breaking your word or anything, you know."

00000000000

Hanchett's disposition remained unshakably sullen and stormy all during the march that morning, his own private thundercloud hanging resolutely over his head. His mood stood in stark contrast to the blossoming day around him, another spring event of warm and abundant sunshine washing the Western Plains in a living glow that would surely rouse the lands from their winter slumbers. The fresh breeze smelled of new grass and fertile earth, and the birdsong that had been absent during most of their trek from the coast now filled the former slaves' ears with a constant scattered chorus of chirps and trills and whistles. Roofbeam, circling above the journeybeats, added her own voice to the avian orchestra, punctuating the background melodies with warbles and cheeps to please herself. It was as if the whole world was coming back to life, and happy to be doing so.

Sergeant Traughber, while not exactly the picture of perfect cheer, had at least resigned himself to the fact that his promise had placed Browder beyond his reach for the moment, and was past dwelling on it or obsessing over it as Hanchett seemed bound and determined to do. As such, the senior Long Patrol hare found himself slipping into the spirit of the glad-hearted beasts around him. Their obvious joy at being so close to a refuge of peace and plenty and happiness after their seasons of suffering under the searats' whips and chains, and their relief that Browder was safe from any Long Patrol retributions, combined with the perfect weather to raise spirits immensely. Traughber, free from the gnawing funk that held Hanchett tightly within its grip, could appreciate the buoyant mood of the company, and did his best not to sour it.

Clovis and Lekkas, seeing that at least one of the Long Patrols' moods wasn't totally foul, came forward to walk with Granholm and Wharff alongside the hares. They were curious, as were all the escaped slaves, as to what awaited them at the Abbey.

"Oh, there'll be a friendly enough welcome for all o' you, have no fear o' that," Traughber assured them. "Jolly old Abbess might even welcome Browder too, unless she kicks him out on his bobtail - th' Redwallers weren't too happy 'bout bein' used as Urthblood's pawn, as I'm sure you can imagine, an' that deceitful hare didn't part on th' best of terms with 'em last time he was there. But as for th' rest of you, you'll be welcome t' stay as long as you like, an' become permanent residents of the Abbey if you choose - your own beds, your own clothes, all th' quaff 'n' scoff that even a hare could ever ask for, an' you'll only hafta work a pittance as hard as when you were slaves."

"Work?" Wharff asked leerily.

"Oh, just chores an' stuff. We all pitch in an' lend a paw, an' wot needs doin' gets done. Some of it's almost fun - helpin' in th' kitchens, pickin' fruits an' veggies from th' gardens an' orchard, lookin' after th' little ones ... an' my personal favorite, standin' walltop sentry duty on a grand an' glorious day such as this. But wot really matters is that everybeast there helps because they want to, not 'cos they're forced to."

"Sounds wonderful," Granholm nodded in a half-daydream spun by the Sergeant's words. "I'd scrub pots and pans from dawn to dusk if I knew my reward would be food like you and Klystra have brought to us. Is the fare always that tasty at Redwall?"

Traughber laughed. "Chappie, you ain't seen th' half of it! So happens you'll be arrivin' just in time for Nameday!"

The woodlanders looked blank. "Nameday?" Clovis asked.

"Ah, Browder never told ya 'bout that, did he? Course not - he had t' scuttle his stinkin' scut fast outta there, an' never got t' hang around long enough t' ruin one o' those fine occasions. Y' see, th' Redwallers give a name t' every single season, so's they can keep track o' things in their historical records. At th' start of each season, the Abbot or Abbess chooses a name for it, an' then they celebrate with a feast the likes o' which you've gotta experience to believe! Sat through two of 'em so far m'self, an' even I can hardly believe 'em!"

The idea of so much food and drink made the slaves' mouths water. The notion that such a grand feast might be awaiting them at journey's end was almost overwhelming.

"So, um, what's this season gonna be called?" Wharff inquired.

"Don't know yet," Traughber replied. "The Abbess seemed to've had one all picked out, but she might change her mind once you lot arrive. Season names oft reflect wot's goin' on at th' time. Why, we hares got a season named in our honor when we settled there last fall. When the Abbess catches a gander at wot a jolly crowd you've got here, she might just name this th' bally Spring o' the Freed Slaves, or some such thing ... "

"A ... season, named for us?" Clovis repeated. The idea seemed to daunt her.

"Wouldn't doubt it, ma'am. Haven't heard your full tale yet m'self, but I'm sure it's one well worth th' tellin', wot? Whether you get that honor or not, the Abbey Recorder will still want t' hear all your stories t' enter 'em inta th' histories. He's most particular 'bout things like that. But th' Abbess promised t' hold off on th' celebrations 'til we get there, an' that's all that matters to me!"

Roofbeam came fluttering down to the soft grass a short way ahead of the procession, cheeping for their attention. "I'll go see wot she wants," Hanchett grumbled, sprinting forward to escape the more upbeat creatures around him. He returned moments later and addressed Traughber.

"She wants t' fly back t' Redwall an' let th' Abbess know we've linked up with th' slaves all right. Should we have her tell th' Colonel that Browder's with us?"

Traughber stroked his whiskers in contemplation as they all trudged on toward where the Sparra awaited.

"Naw," he said after much consideration. "We got a bally surprise outta that when we ran inta that louse. Wot say we drop that surprise on everybeast else when we get there, wot?"

00000000000

Neskyn and his wife Runsa were the leaders of Holt Toor. For the past season and a half, this otter clan of south Mossflower had guarded the searat submarine that Urthblood had captured the previous summer. Neskyn and Runsa were longstanding friends of the Guosim shrews, and when Log-a-Log had been getting ready to lead his wandering tribe north to Redwall for the winter, the Toor otters had answered the shrew chieftain's appeal for somebeast else to protect the strange vessel. So, most of the holt had packed up their belongings and moved downriver to where the iron searat ship was moored, and set up a new temporary home on the banks alongside the craft.

The otters of Holt Toor had already known about the searat vessel, of course, and a few had even made the trip downstream to see it for themselves. In keeping with the Badger Lord's decree, word of this menace had been spread to every otter community in Mossflower, so that those aquatic beasts could be on the lookout along every broad watercourse that linked Mossflower to the sea. But none of the other holts were as close to where the captured craft was being kept as Holt Toor ... which was how that clan came to get the job of guarding the sub during the cold season.

That cold season was now drawing to a close. Neskyn's otters didn't keep track of the days the way the Redwallers (or the unfortunate Wexford) did, but they could tell prefectly well that spring was upon them. And that meant their relief would soon arrive, and they would be free to return to their proper homes. The mudhut shelters that the Guosim had built for themselves by the river had been enlarged to accommodate beasts of the otters' size, but it was still only temporary housing, and nearly every otter there itched to return to their holt's territory.

Their relief, when it finally did arrive, did not come from the direction or in the form they expected.

It was another of those glorious spring days that had been coming in profusion lately. The bare tree limbs hung heavy with clusters of tight leaf buds, nearly ready to burst their bonds and renew the multilayered forest canopy with their countless green shields. Other buds nodded and swayed in the breeze atop slender stalks, tight-packed petals that would soon spill open to paint the woodlands with every color imaginable. Birds hopped from branch to branch, picking some of the early spring insects off the bark or fluttering down to try their luck at digging baby worms out of the soft earth near the riverbank, and generally raising enough happy racket to wake a deadbeast. A few of the more ambitious members of the winged folk dove into the stream after newly-hatched minnows or shrimpfry. The waters ran swift and clear through this scene of vernal rebirth, a constant source of fish, refreshment and swimming fun for the otters.

Upon these rushing waters came a veritable fleet of shrew logboats, the small beasts within calling upon the full extent of their strength and rower's knowledge to navigate upstream. Above them soared a falcon, its shadow chasing them along every twist and bend in the river. When the flotilla finally hove within sight of the otter settlement and the hatch of the searat vessel sticking up above the surface, the crew of the lead logboat turned and shouted back along the line of tiny craft, which were immediately directed to the north banks and pulled up out of the river there.

All this commotion naturally attracted the attention of the otters, who were soon to a beast arrayed along the banks themselves, paws on hips as they took stock of the newcomers. The Guosim sometimes travelled by logboat, it was true, but this group looked to have come in from the sea. It was possible that the Guosim had left Redwall and gone straight to the River Moss, followed it to the sea and thence down the coast to the mouth of this broadstream, and paddled inland again, but it didn't seem like there'd been enough time for that. Spring was only a few days old, and knowing Log-a-Log, the Guosim were probably still at the Abbey, enjoying Redwall's famous hospitality and squeezing every last bit that they could out of their winter's layover there.

So, if these were not the Guosim, then who were they? Neskyn, standing at the fore of his otters, scanned the newcomers, but they were nobeasts he recognized. Their lack of headbands and more rugged garments marked them as strangers to this region ... but they were certainly setting themselves up as if they belonged here, and meant to stay.

One of the shrews strode fearlessly forward and asked, in a slight Northlands accent, "Which one o' you's in charge 'ere?"

Neskyn, keeping one wary eye on the tunic-clad falcon who'd settled heavily onto a sycamore branch across the river, scattering the smaller birds, extended an uncertain paw of greeting. "Neskyn, o' Holt Toor. An' yore ... ?"

"Captain Tardo, o' Lord Urthblood's Northland Broadstream shrews, pleased t' make yer acquainternce." The shrew commander took the otter's much larger paw and shook it vigorously. "You th' riverdogs who've been keepin' tabs on that prize there?" Tardo nodded toward the mostly-submerged searat vessel.

"Um ... aye, that we are. I'm Neskyn, this 'ere's me wife Runsa, an' th' rest o' this soggy crew's Holt Toor, or most of 'em, anyways. But, uh, we was expectin' th' Guosim t' spell us ... "

"Gowsem? Oh, you mean them Mossflower shrews? Dunno 'bout them, but Lord Urthblood wanted us here lickety-split t' take charge o' that rustbucket. Been some trouble with th' searats, an' we can expect more t' come, so there's gonna be full security at this site."

The otters were a little taken aback by Tardo's brash manner ... and by the inference that Holt Toor was more lax in their vigilance than these shrews would be.

"What kind o' trouble with the searats?" Runsa asked, trying to keep the conversation civil.

"Could be all-out war, before season's end," Tardo replied. "We hit 'em pretty hard, inflicted heavy losses, more'n they can ignore. An' with some o' these newfangled weapons Tratton's got, it'll be some tussle!"

"You mean, like those?" Neskyn thumbed a paw toward the submarine.

"Aw, those steel fish ain't th' half of it! But Lord Urthblood's got a few new innervations of his own, an' a few new allies too. I'd not wanna be part o' any searat assault force that tries t' take Salamandastron, no siree!"

Neskyn gazed along the downstream banks, taking stock of all the beached logboats. He estimated there to be at least two dozen of the small craft, and even though they weren't fully crewed, that still amounted to literally scores of the coarse little beasts. "Urthblood shore sent a lot o' you, didn't he?"

"Oh, we're jus' th' advance contingent," said Tardo. "Lots more o' us comin' down from th' north overland. Should get 'ere later this season. Reckon we'll number a couple hundred when all's said 'n' done."

Many eyebrows went up among the otters, and more than one whistle was heard. Neskyn glanced back towards the ramshackle mudhuts which had housed his clan for the winter. "Guess ye'll be needin' t' build a few more o' them then, huh?"

"Oh, those mudpiles? Naw, we'll be tearin' those down soon as you ruddertails've got all o' yer belongin's outta them. We're stickin' 'round fer a good while, an' Lord Urthblood's got big plans fer this site, you can be sure o' that!"

Again, the shrew captain's manner rankled the Toor otters. Sure, they'd found their crude winter quarters cramped and a tad squalid, but they had also formed a kind of grudging attachment to their temporary homes. And to hear it announced so cavalierly that the huts were to be leveled without a second thought was just a little galling. So what if they'd been eager to relocate back to their full-time homes as soon as possible before these shrews showed up?

"Y' know," Neskyn said, stroking his whiskers thoughtfully, "just mebbe me an' some o' me mateys'll stick around t' help you all get settled in ... "

"Huh? Well, if'n y' wanna, ain't no skin off my tail. Just keep outta our way when we get t' workin', an' it should be no problem."

"Hmph!" Runsa crossed her paws over her chest. "Yore almost as pushy as those other shrews who came through this way late last season ... "

This made Tardo's head snap around. "What other shrews?"

"Said they was Guosim, an' they looked 'n' sounded th' part," explained Neskyn. "Problem was, I knew fer a fact that th' Guosim were still winterin' at Redwall. Now, I heard rumors o' some feudin' 'tween those shrews, so mebbe this was some splinter tribe that's split off from th' main group. But they wasn't th' real Guosim, even though they was tryin' t' convince us some clown named Snoga's their new Log-a-Log."

"Log-a-Log?" Tardo stared blankly.

"That's th' title fer th' Guosim's chieftain. This bunch was knockin' their current Log-a-Log sumpthin' fierce. Come t' think on it, they was badmouthin' yore Lord Urthblood pretty good too."

"Oh, was they now?" Tardo straightened to an indignant stance. "Don't suppose they're still about? I'd like t' give 'em a piece o' my mind."

"No such luck, 'm afraid," said Runsa. "We sent 'em packin' with a few kicks in their scruffy skintails. Haven't seen 'em around in many a day."

"Too bad." Tardo sighed. "Prob'ly nuthin' important anyway ... "


	23. Chapter 29

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The sea was angry, a perfect match for the Searat King's mood.

Tratton stood upon his private balcony, paws clasped behind his back as his violet and green eyes gazed out toward the southern horizon. The calm of spring may have come to Mossflower, but out here around the forbidding isle of Terramort, far from any mainland, it might as well have still been the depths of winter for all that the ocean roiled, the winds whipped and the clouds and sea mists obscured the sun. Terramort was a place of desolation that knew harsh cold for half the year and blistering heat for the other half. The moderating climes of spring and autumn would never touch the surf-pounded cliffs or barren crags of Tratton's fortress island.

But if the sun did not shine often here, the pirate king's stronghold did. Once, long ago, a crude castle called Fort Bladegirt had dominated the island's south tip, perched atop the sheerest and deadliest cliffs on the isle. Bladegirt had been a typical vermin palace - dark, dank, festooned with a richness of plundered wealth that did little to mask the underlying wretchedness of the place. It was a crucible of wickedness that crushed the soul of anybeast with a shred of decency in its heart who was forced to dwell there. Bladegirt was long gone, and in its place stood an abomination that would not so much crush a beast's spirit as suck it dry.

This was Terramort of Terramort, the seat of the most powerful searat empire there had ever been. If the average bastion of tyranny was dark and brooding, this edifice was as different as could be. Terramort resembled nothing so much as a stack of immense rectangular slabs which had been piled one atop the other, slightly offcenter so that some levels stuck out from others at unexpected junctures. Nowhere in its sterile architecture was there a curve, dome, tower or battlement to be seen - just an antiseptic assortment of flat planes, sharp lines and even sharper corners that screamed "unnatural" in its artificiality. But the most striking thing about Terramort was its color. Countless tons of virgin marble had been excavated from the island of Karnavat and shipped here for the construction of Tratton's fortress. Whiter than the whitest bone, the flawless stone lent a surreal air to the angular structure, making it look like something that had been dropped onto the clifftop from another world. On those rare days when the sun forced its way through the everpresent clouds that blanketed these skies, Terramort gleamed so brightly that the eye could scarcely tolerate to gaze upon it.

The most remarkable aspect of Terramort's construction, however, was neither its color nor its layout but an array of hidden features built into the design by a certain ingenious ferret and otherwise known only to the Searat King himself. But these were not to play any part in the events at paw.

The top floor of Terramort - Tratton's private retreat and sanctum - stuck out over the levels below on all sides so that nobeast could spy on the pirate king in his personal moments ... or have a clear shot at him. Except for Tratton and his queen Regelline, no other creature was allowed up here or on the roof under pain of death, unless accompanied by a pair of Tratton's most trustworthy palace guardrats. Those loyal sentries stood watch over the stairways up to the royal chambers at all times, day and night.

Two of those guards now maintained stiff poses of attention by the door leading out onto the terrace where Tratton stood. Before them shuffled and fidgeted a third rat, clearly nervous at being in the presence of his ruthless and all-powerful ruler. The nature of the news he'd just delivered did little to put him at ease.

The balcony deck was as regally spacious as befitted a monarch; an entire merchant ship could have been placed upon the open-air gallery with room to spare. Many paces separated the anxious visitor from where Tratton stood with his back to the others, motionlessly glowering at the turbulent sea, but the message-bearing rat still felt close enough to the dangerous sealord that he imagined Tratton might lash out and take his head at any moment. And when that neat-furred visage turned to glance back his way, he supposed it might as easily have been to issue an execution order as anything.

Instead, Tratton merely said, "And you did not see how the _Sharktail_ was set afire, Thapa?"

"N-no, Yer Majesty," the _Butcher Buoy_'s senior weapons officer stammered. "She was already fully ablaze an' sinkin' when we surfaced. T'was th' explosion o' her stormpowder stores that alerted us. She musta been burnin' fer quite some time 'fore we came up."

"And you didn't notice before then that your mothership was aflame?"

"Um, er ... no topside windows in th' Butcher Buoy, M'Lord. We was so busy watchin' fer otters, since they'd already tried t' hole us once. Musta been them planktailed ruffians what sneaked back aboard an' set her on fire."

"Did you see any otters? That's what you were patrolling for."

"Aye, Yer Majesty. Um, I mean, no, we didn't see a one of 'em, an' we didn't drop our guard fer a heartbeat. That's what we can't figger ... "

Tratton turned all the way around to fully face Thapa. "Is it possible that those squirrel archers ashore might have done this with flaming arrows?"

"I s'pose so, Sire. Th' _Sharktail_ was pretty close t' shore when this happened. Thing is, Cap'n Rindosh had sent ashore over a hunnerd fighters t' engage them woodlanders. Can't see how they'd o' been free to shoot so many arrers right then ... or how our shipmates wouldn'ta been able t' put out th' flames 'fore it got too bad."

"Yes, that is a mystery. Most unfortunate that there is no other rat who could answer this question for us. I find it somewhat hard to believe that there were no other survivors - none at all."

Thapa withered under Tratton's unwavering two-tone gaze. "Uh ... it's like I said, M'Lord! Them murderous squirrels 'n' otters 'n' shrews weren't leavin' any o' us alive! You shoulda seen th' look in th' eyes o' th' shore party who came back from investergatin' th' lumber mill site. They said t'was like lookin' at th' world's end! Urthblood's beasts burned ev'ry building, ripped apart most o' th' dock, an' sank th' _Wavehauler_ an' _Scorpiontail_ both! An' they was just as merciless toward th' _Sharktail_ - why, I'm sure they woulda figgered out some way t' overwhelm us too, if we hadn't got outta there when we did."

"Ah. So you left in quite a hurry, did you?"

A chill ran down Thapa's spine, causing his fur to ripple from ear to ankle. But the weapons officer had been anticipating this line of questioning, and had his answers ready.

"Yer Majesty, they coulda captured th' _Butcher Buoy_, an' that'd be a disaster! We couldn't let that happen!"

"The woodlanders already saw that craft in action. I doubt there's much more they could have learned from a closer inspection of the Butcher Buoy."

"Aye, but, but, then they woulda had it, an' we wouldn't! Besides, t'was vital that somerat make it back 'ere t' tell you what happened!"

"What happened?" Tratton echoed. "It sounds to me as if you can't even tell me that with any certainty, despite the fact that you were there. Can you even assure me that it was Urthblood behind this treachery?"

"Well, whatbeast else could it be?"

"It is most impolite to answer one question with another, Thapa."

The rat officer visibly quailed. "Uh, a thousand apologies, Yer Highness! But, it's like I told you: them squirrels was holdin' up th' banner o' Urthblood, an' not being shy 'bout it neither. Can't think why any other beasts would wanna give credit fer sumpthin' like this t' that bloody badger if they wasn't part o' his forces ... "

"I have captains and strategists to do the thinking on such matters," Tratton said levelly. "Your duty is to report what you observed, as faithfully and without bias as you are able to recall." The Searat King stared at Thapa for several long moments, his expression unreadable. "I may wish to speak with you further," he said at last. "My guards will escort you back to your room. You are dismissed."

The relief was plain on Thapa's face. As he bowed and turned to leave, Tratton flashed a paw signal to the two royal guards, indicating that they were to return Thapa to the chambers where he and the rest of the Butcher Buoy's crew had been held in isolation since their return to Terramort. The sealord and his personal guard had worked out an entire vocabulary of gestures whereby they could wordlessly communicate a wide range of commands. Tratton could just as easily have signalled for Thapa's execution, torture or expulsion from the island, or had him placed under surveillance. But since in his view the situation called for none of these, mere sequestering would suffice for now. There was already enough gossip amongst the crewrats of the other vessels and the island soldiers, and Tratton didn't need details of these losses to be confirmed among the rank and file.

Thapa was ushered away by the guards. Tratton waited until he heard the self-locking door to his suite shut with a definite slam, then turned to face the restless sea once more. It didn't take long for him to hear the softly shuffling pawsteps of the only other creature who could be up here with him, padding their graceful way across the smooth tiled deck toward him.

"So, the fearless tyrant's cowardice comes back to bite him in the tail, eh?" came the mocking voice from behind him.

"You were listening?" Tratton asked the sea, not turning to face his queen.

"Naturally. I knew this day would come, when you failed to act last summer at Salamandastron. You could have defeated him then!"

"We don't know that!" he snapped.

"Yes, we do," Regelline sneered. "We had over a thousand fighters ready and willing to go. But no, you worried that there might be two badgers in the mountain, trying to draw you in, despite your intelligence reports and the plain evidence of the mass graves right before your eyes, and even Urthblood's own banner flying above Salamandastron! There were never two badgers there - never two armies! Only Urthblood's, and his was half-dead after the battle with his brother! Now, he has had two seasons to consolidate his power - and it has come to this! If you worried over how you might conquer the mountain when Urthblood was at his most vulnerable, however do you imagine you can do so now that he is confident enough of his strength to strike at us like this?"

Now Tratton did turn to face his mate, slowly and purposefully. "At that time, my dear Regelline, I did not have the stocks of stormpowder that I have today, or the means of delivering them."

"Ahh ... And how many more ships must you lose before you will feel compelled to answer this audacious, bald-faced challenge to your authority?"

Tratton stalked over to his wife until they were practically nose-to-nose. "I will lose no more ships," he said in a smooth, even voice. "That badger will be put in his place ... as will you, my fair queen, if you keep on reminding me so plainly why we maintain separate beds."

The Searat King moved past her, off the balcony and into their private rooms. She waited until she heard the slam of a door, indicating he had either retreated into his own chambers or left the suite altogether.

"And you, my regal husband, had best not lose anymore ships," she hissed into the empty wind sweeping across the deck. "Otherwise, you might just lose everything ... and take me down with you."

00000000000

A phalanx of his personal royal guards accompanied Tratton as he descended through the tunnels that connected the basement levels of his white fortress to his shipbuilding caves. The walk was a long one, for the seaside caves lay on the opposite end of the island, on Terramort's northernmost tip. But after the news he'd received this day, and the terse confrontation with his wife, Tratton needed a good long stroll to unwind and clear his mind.

The guards voiced no objections. Tratton never went anywhere without an armed escort, not even on his own island. To serve the sealord well meant great rewards, but to displease him could mean instant death ... or a slower, more painful one. And Tratton was very good at remembering the names and faces of those around him who performed well - and those who did not. So it was not pride alone that had this contingent striding uncomplainingly at Tratton's heels as he stretched his legs.

They emerged onto the high observation balcony overlooking the cavernous complex. Tratton took a moment to stuff wadding into his ears to protect his hearing from the pounding, clanging cacophony that filled the space, then started down the rock-carved steps leading to the water level.

Once, legend had it, these caves had been the headquarters for a slave revolt - another reason Tratton didn't trust slaves. Now, however, these caverns had been greatly expanded to house the secret weapon shops and naval iron works of the searat empire. It was here that the steel ships which could sail both above and beneath the waves were assembled, and in the adjacent labs that the stormpowder had been refined and perfected.

Everything here was hewn from the living rock itself, much as it was at Salamandastron. The sea flowed in through an entrance which had been widened to accommodate the passage of large vessels. All along the stone piers toiled welders, riveters, casters and other steelworkers, torches blazing and hammers pounding and forges glowing and molten metal pouring. There was another shipyard on Terramort Island, along the west coast, where the dreadnoughts and other traditional wood sailing ships were constructed. But it was in these underground, noise-filled, ever-bustling caverns that the future of Tratton's empire lay, now more than ever.

_Two dreadnoughts, lost!_ he thought to himself as he roamed amidst the shipbuilding activity. And he wouldn't even have known about this at all if it hadn't been for the escape of the Butcher Buoy's crew, and their fortuitous retrieval by the war galleon _Bloodkeel_ that just happened to be passing their way. Those were ships that would not be replaced anytime this season, not with the main timber camp and all of its lumber burned to ash. It was time to expand his operations elsewhere, in places Urthblood couldn't reach. At least not yet ... and not ever, if Tratton could help it.

For now, the dreadnoughts remained the backbone of his naval power, supported by the smaller frigates and galleons, many of which were left over from the days of Farca and Garwal. But it was the dreadnoughts more than anything else that had allowed Tratton to project his sea power farther and wider than any searat ruler before him. These were the largest ships to ever sail the main, each big enough to carry catapults and other heavy siege weaponry, sizable enough to hold their own defensive submersibles, spacious enough to bear an entire waterborne army. Such unprecedented concentration of military power had proven time and again to be unstoppable.

Until now.

For all their awesome capability, the dreadnoughts were essentially just oversized versions of the classic pirate ships, at their hearts wood and canvas. And as such, they were still vulnerable to the oldest of countermeasures against them: holing and burning. Urthblood knew this, and had used these tactics to devastating advantage. He probably would have resorted to them the previous summer as well, when Tratton had had four dreadnoughts poised to launch an all-out assault upon Salamandastron. Perhaps the searats would still have won the day as Regelline maintained, drowning the defenders in their overwhelming numbers before Urthblood could fire and sink the craft which had delivered them to that shore. In his heart, however, Tratton doubted it. If he'd unleashed his full power back then, the battle would have been a bloodbath, with much of that blood his own and no guarantee of victory.

Four dreadnoughts. Against anybeast else it would have been overkill. Such a force might still be enough to overcome Urthblood ... now that the stormpowder could be factored into the equation. If Tratton had possessed sufficient stockpiles of that weapon the summer before when he'd faced down the badger warrior, he would not have hesitated to attack. And now that Urthblood had made this a real war with his treacherous sneak attacks, all choice in the matter had been taken out of his paws. There was no question of what must come next.

It would take time. Only two dreadnoughts currently lay at anchor in Terramort Cove - the _Whaleslayer_ and his own flagship the _Whiteclaw_ - and he would require more than that for the challenge ahead of him. There were other warships presently moored in that harbor, but Tratton would not leave his stronghold to face his mortal enemy until more of his greatest of all ships returned from their current voyages.

Yes, the Searat King himself would venture forth from his deadly lair to engage his badger nemesis. But when he did, it would not be within a vessel made of material as insubstantial and uncertain as wood.

Tratton found his chief builder Clucus by the _Wedge_, overseeing the application of external steel plates to the wood hull. This was a ship unlike any in the searat fleet so far; the basic wood frame was supported by interior steel crossbeams and keel reinforcements, and the entire hull would be encased in metal so that the vessel would be rendered unburnable and virtually unsinkable by any ordinary means. She was larger than any submarine or ironclad to yet emerge from this underground shipyard, and the only one with a rowing galley - which would, of course, be crewed by Tratton's own rats. Some of his lesser captains still insisted upon keeping slaves aboard their frigates and galleons, but woodlanders were strictly prohibited from all dreadnoughts and submersibles, as well as from setting foot on Terramort itself. The sub that had gone missing the previous summer had been on a slave-gathering mission, and its disappearance had fueled the Searat King's distrust of woodlanders. From now on, neither he nor his island nor any of his most prized vessels would have anything to do with those beasts. The vanished sub had been far too valuable for its scouting, infiltration and troop-carrying capability to have been wasted in such a way, and Tratton would never again so squander his assets.

The _Wedge_ also differed in that her wide stern bore not one but three of the giant propulsion screws, and the internal mechanisms to crank them were the most intricate to yet be installed on any searat ship, allowing the work of a dozen rats to be multiplied into many times the equivalent force. Between the rowers and these propellers, the _Wedge_ would be able to cut through the water much faster than her stocky shape would suggest.

As the coterie of guards held back, Tratton took aside Clucus. The blonde-furred ferret mechanic was one of the few non-rats permitted within close proximity of Tratton, and had more than earned the privilege with his nonstop parade of innovations. As long as he was provided the space, materials and rat muscle to pursue his interests, he was more than happy to do the Searat King's bidding faithfully and without question.

Due to the noise level, it was necessary for Tratton to drape a paw around Clucus's shoulder and draw him close. Even so, they practically had to shout into each other's ears to be heard.

"When will she be ready to sail?" Tratton inquired, nodding toward the Wedge.

"Should be another fortnight, Yer Majesty, give or take."

"I will need her before then."

Surprise painted the ferret's beige-and-black face. Of course Tratton always wanted him to produce as quickly as possible, but seldom were such deadlines imposed upon Clucus.

"How much sooner, Sire?"

"You have until the next two dreadnoughts return. We will be leaving the morning after the second arrives."

"And when'll that be?" Clucus asked, seeking clarification.

"When they get here. Just have her ready, Clucus. Use as many rats as you need, in continuous shifts if you have to. Do not disappoint me."

And the smile that accompanied this last utterance was a companionable death threat.

"Uh ... aye, M'Lord! It'll be ready!"

Tratton gave an officious nod and took his leave of his chief engineer. Now he had to inform the captains of the Whiteclaw and the Whaleslayer that their schedules had changed, and they would not be sailing anywhere ... yet.

Such were the ways of war. For make no mistake, war this most certainly was.


End file.
